


holy sick divine

by earlylight



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Drinking, Food Porn, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mutual Pining, Paperwork - But Make It Sexy, Slow Burn, Strangers who Met in a Field to Coworkers to Friends to Lovers, canon remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 00:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 36,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19306867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlylight/pseuds/earlylight
Summary: He looks up to catch David watching him, a soft smile on his face, golden-cast in the warm light that’s suddenly filling the office, dust motes wheeling a scintillating symphony around him, and Patrick can’t help but let slip a kind of hushed, reverent,what are you?In the space of a second, the room is back to normal. Almost as if he’d dreamed it. David cocks his head, puzzled, evidently considering the question. “Hungry,” he decides.AU. One fateful night, Patrick meets a boy who’s literally out of this world. Unfortunately, winning David Rose’s heart involves entirely too much paperwork – but the pen is mightier than the sword, and by god does Patrick know how to use it.





	1. inside a boy (i found a universe)

**Author's Note:**

> A comedic trope I love is putting the mundane into the extraordinary, like the juxtaposition of a fantastical alien civilisation with the tedium of filing paperwork - from the [viciously bureaucratic Volgons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHJjhCx32DQ) in Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, to our heroes from Jupiter Ascending's most challenging fight yet - [finding the right form to file an ascendancy claim](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VveTsyjFlNA). I thus present to you a story of magic space aliens figuring out tax and contract law, with the help of a plucky consultant and the physical manifestation of gay love, entitled with lyrics from a Lorde song that doesn't even fit the theme (though, I've made up for it with four very fun songs that do).
> 
> This is also a story that written in just under three weeks, finished at 3am the day before the final deadline, unbeta'd, barely edited, and absolutely dripping with blood, sweat and tears. I have not killed my darlings. They're your darlings, now. Cherish them. So, in the immortal words of James Acaster: started making it, had a breakdown, _bon appetit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(—and in his eyes are a thousand stars,[on a dark sky](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aB-FLxglSOA))_   
> 

_In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes._  
— Benjamin Franklin

 

Patrick’s just finishing up some final budget adjustments for the day when the lights start appearing in the sky.

The room he’s renting at the property adjacent to Heather’s farm sits right at the limits for the town of Schitt’s Creek, eating a good way into the trip to Elmdale – though without really saving any time, due to the necessity of having to actually _get_ to that main road. On nights like these, when Heather and the gang are overnighting in Elmdale for the farmer’s market and he’s left on his lonesome, burning the midnight oil tweaking some numbers on the spreadsheet in front of him, it’s quiet – the countryside rolling out still and dark, his bedroom window the only source of light for miles, turning the cottage into a landlocked lighthouse. Which is why, when Patrick snaps his laptop shut and flicks off his lamp and his room _isn’t dark_ , he edges back out of bed, twitching open his curtains, and is greeted by a night sky to put all other night skies to shame.

 _Holy shit._ By all accounts, Schitt’s Creek is too far south to get any airtime with the aurora borealis under regular circumstances, so what’s unfolding in front of Patrick’s eyes is nothing short of a winning lottery ticket stamped in the sky – iridescent ribbons of green-blue light, curving gracefully towards the horizon, completely impossible and utterly breathtaking. Patrick presses against the window, torn between the thought of grabbing his phone versus missing a single second of what’s unfolding in front of him, but the sky makes the choice for him – suddenly, the lights _flare,_ the world alight in searing emerald, forcing Patrick to shield his eyes as a crack of dry thunder splits the air. And then, as quick as it came, all the lights are gone – leaving Patrick standing, dumbfounded, in his pitch black bedroom.

“Holy _shit,_ ” Patrick repeats, blinking rapidly against the fading purple streaks across his retinas. Correction – it’s not _all_ dark. As his vision clears, he can make out a new light source flickering out in the field.

Shit. That better _not_ have been a meteorite taking a chunk out of Heather’s flock. He needs _every one_ of those goats making chevre if they’re going to get ahead of the first quarter. “Okay, just going to check. Check on the goats,” he mutters to himself, snatching up his car keys and taking the stairs two at a time.

*

Patrick’s not sure what he expected when he brought his car around to the impact site – his imagination had helpfully provided him with an image of charred goat corpses set around a blackened hole, a ghostly quarterly projection in the red superimposed over it – but if he had a list of things that would be reasonable to expect after some kind of solar event, what he’s seeing now wouldn’t have even _made_ that list. Nor the shortlist, for that list. To the point that Patrick isn’t entirely certain that he’s not having a very vivid stress-induced night terror right now.

Sitting in the middle of the field, lit by the glow of Patrick’s headlights back over where he parked the car, is a massive pile of standard issue file boxes. A couple of them have tipped over, and a sudden breeze flings a few papers into the air – Patrick, borne on muscle memory from decades of playing the outfield, grabs them before they can fly away. He frowns down at them – it’s too dark to really make out what’s written on them, but—

“Much appreciated, kind stranger!” comes a voice off to his left, and Patrick whips around to come face to face with what can only be described as a glamorous older couple who’ve wandered off the set of The Great Gatsby. Patrick, in a dressing gown with his checkered pajama bottoms tucked into a pair of gumboots, is suddenly very glad he’s not having this conversation in the unforgiving light of day. The man, in a full three-piece suit and coiffed, salt-and-pepper hair atop a _very_ prominent pair of eyebrows, smiles at him and shifts the box he’s holding in his arms so he can extend a gloved hand. “I’ll take those off your hands, if you don’t mind.”

Patrick blinks, realizes he’s still holding those loose papers, and hands them over. “Are—are you two okay?” he ventures. “I heard this huge crash, and—what on _Earth_ happened here?”

“Oh! So we _are_ in the correct locale,” the lady to his right exclaims in a high, lilting accent Patrick can’t quite place, a vision in some sort of monochrome _haute couture_ ballgown and six inch studded heels. She gives her companion a light slap to the arm, and Patrick notices she’s wearing black leather gloves, which are _also_ studded. “See, didn’t I _tell_ you, Johnny. And you had the temerity to _doubt_ my navigational prowess.”

“Never, not for a second, Moira,” Johnny replies. “Say,” he continues, addressing Patrick, “Are we in the township of, ah, Schitt’s Creek?”

“Technically, yeah, you’re within the limits,” Patrick replies. He points out, past the dot of light of his bedroom in the distance, with his nice warm bed that he’s beginning to regret leaving. “The actual town is around fifteen minutes’ drive down the road, in that direction.”

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Johnny says. “And would you be the, uh, leader? Of this fine town?”

“Well, I’d like to think I’m a pillar of the community,” Patrick jokes. The two just stare at him blankly. _Good lord, they’re serious._ “Uh, but if you’re looking for the mayor, that would be Roland Schitt. But I really don’t think he’s going to be available for an appointment at this hour.”

“A pity, but I’m sure we’ll find him in the morning. Well, my name is Johnny Rose, and this is my wife, Moira.”

“Patrick Brewer,” he responds. “I’m ah, happy to help.”

“And we’re glad for it. Would you be so kind as to direct us to the nearest accommodation, so that my family and I can recuperate from our difficult journey?”

Patrick looks to the couple, who give him twin genteel smiles, and then to the pile of file boxes, and considers several things: no tire marks from any kind of transport vehicle that could’ve brought these people and their mountain of paperwork to a field in the middle of relative nowhere. Just, generally, the concept of some old money family, in full black-tie regalia, delighted to be standing in a muddy goat-field at midnight. Apparently, not knowing what a ‘mayor’ is.  “There’s a motel on the other side of town,” Patrick says finally. “I can give you a ride, if you’d like.”

“That’s great news! Moira, you stay here, I’ll rally the troops. Alexis!” Johnny yells out, towards the box-pile. “Hurry up with your brother!”

“I am _trying_ ,” a third person replies, hidden from sight on the other side of the pile. “His big dumb foot is wedged in there!”

“ _Hey_ ,” a _fourth_ voice rings out indignantly, “It’s not _my fault_ that—ugh, Alexis, get off. Just go! Just _go._ ”

“Ugh, fine, David! Enjoy your life as a paperweight!” One of them pops out, coming into the light – a woman, around Patrick’s age or younger, looking like a supermodel in a sparkly flapper dress and vintage boots, various pieces of jewelry glinting as she flicks her hair in irritation. She brightens up upon spotting Patrick, tottering over to them unevenly in the mud. A low bleat announces the presence of one of Heather’s goats, thankfully all in one piece, come to see what all the fuss is about.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes in a cute little fuzzy co—OH,” she exclaims, as the goat takes an interest in her dress, and expresses that interest with its teeth. “ _Ew_ , can you—this is not _edible_ , I think, get—OFF—”

Patrick and Johnny both move forward at the same time to assist, but Alexis holds up a hand that says _let me handle this_ and then shimmies off one of her elbow length, satiny gloves, passing it back to her other hand. She presses her index finger firmly to the goat’s knobbly brow. “Stop that,” she reprimands. And, miraculously, the goat lets go.

Alexis makes a satisfied little _hmm,_ brushing off her dress as the goat wanders off into the night. Patrick tracks it briefly to be sure it’s not planning to circle back and chew on the mountain of paperwork. “Sorry for the interruption,” she continues, “And, don’t worry – we won’t be seeing _that_ gross thing again, so, no need to thank me, and, you’re welcome.” She extends her gloved arm to Patrick with her hand crooked downwards, like she’s expecting him to kiss it. “I’m Alexis Rose, of the Rose family, and you are?”

At this point, there’s a disturbance among the boxes, and a triumphant shout must indicate that whoever’s foot was trapped beneath them has been freed. “Nice to meet you, Alexis,” Patrick replies, just kind of—grabbing her hand by the fingers and giving it an awkward shake. “I’m—”

He trails off, the words drying up in his mouth, because from behind the boxes has emerged the most beautiful boy he’s ever _seen_ – six miles of legs in a perfectly tailored black suit with crisp white accents, dark hair swept effortlessly back off his forehead, striking brows fixed in a frown atop a pouty, generous mouth, brooding jawline etched in stubble. “Guh,” Patrick says, ineloquently, trying to put the brakes on his train of thought. He feels like a Looney Tunes character, heartbeat thumping through his eyeballs, desperately trying to pull his miles-long tongue back into his mouth. “I’m, Bratrick. Patrick,” he manages, giving himself an internal shake. _Get it together, Brewer._ “I’m Patrick Brewer. Ah, my car is over there. Obviously. I mean, you can see it, so, follow me.”

“Sweet Pat, we are ever so grateful for your generosity,” Moira says. “David, Alexis, go help your father with the boxes.”

The gorgeous boy, ostensibly David, meets Patrick’s eyes for a brief second – and Patrick should probably be grateful, because even in that short a timeframe it’s enough to give him mild heart palpitations – before huffing and stalking back to the box pile. Patrick does not stare at his ass as he goes. Patrick walks numbly to his car, trailed by a chatty Moira, and pops the trunk, vaguely telling Johnny when he comes back with the first box to just _stack them in here, as many as you can,_ because evidently he’s now somehow ferrying _all of these boxes_ to the motel along with the entire Rose family, one of whom is distressingly attractive, and he’s in his ratty dressing gown and pajamas, and, oh god, there are so many boxes. It’s going to take _so many trips_. It’s possible he doesn’t even have enough gas in the tank to do it. He stares down into his (mostly) empty trunk and contemplates just crawling into it and pulling the lid down behind him.

“There,” Johnny declares, setting the last box into place. “That’s the last one. A job well done, Roses.” Patrick blinks, snapping back into reality and to a trunk completely packed with boxes. Boxes that were towering in a heap above them just minutes ago, somehow all slotted neatly into his trunk without a problem. That makes sense, and is fine.

“So… what happens now?” David murmurs, from behind Patrick, his breath warm against the nape of his neck.

Patrick swallows heavily, and slams the trunk shut. “Now we drive to the motel,” he says, surprised at how steady his voice is. “Everyone hop in and buckle up, it’s a bit bumpy until we hit the main road.”

He’s halfway to the door of the driver’s seat before he realizes the Roses are still huddling around the trunk, watching him. A crazy thought bubbles up in his head. _Maybe they’ve never seen a car before_. Which is ridiculous. He pauses a moment longer, and then, wordlessly, reaches back to open the back door, then circles around the front of the car to grab the other two. “Just, ah, make yourselves comfortable,” he calls out, getting in behind the wheel. “Moira, maybe you’d like to ride shotgun?” Because, god knows, having David in the front might actually kill them all. “The front seat,” he clarifies. _This is perfectly normal_ , he thinks, wildly, as the Roses gingerly squeeze their way into his car. _Maybe they’re French._

None of them wear their seatbelts. Patrick doesn’t have the energy to deal with that, and figures that with the weight of the boxes in the back, he’ll probably be driving slowly anyway. With one last look out into the field – dark and quiet, nothing out of the ordinary to be seen – Patrick heads out towards Schitt’s Creek.

*

Patrick spends a good fifteen minutes the next morning lying in bed, listening to the aggressively ordinary birdsong outside his window as the sunlight stretches across his ceiling, and wonders if any of it was real.

It’s a fair assessment. He’s been single for a while, now, and putting all of his free time into work to justify his lack of a lovelife, so it makes sense that his overtired and, frankly, understimulated brain would conjure up what is ostensibly the plotline of a very niche porno. It’s certainly got the needlessly nonsensical writing down – Hot Aliens in Need of a Naughty Secretary, For Some Reason, To Do All of Their Paperwork. One very hot alien in particular, that Patrick would press down into that pile of boxes, one hand gripped in that lush head of hair, directing him – feeling that delicious scrape of his stubble between his thighs, as he—

Patrick groans, scrubbing a hand across his face, then rolls out of bed and heads straight for the shower. A very cold shower, in which he runs numbers for the sections of the budget he’s tackling today, shivers, and does not think about David Rose, who may or may not exist.

However. _Just_ in case. He’s sure Stevie wouldn’t say no to a free breakfast. “Ray,” he says down the phone, critiquing his choice of dress shirt in the mirror. “I’m thinking of coming in today. Will that work for you?”

 _“Patrick, for the last time, you’re always welcome to work in the office space,”_ comes the voice of Ray Butani, resident realtor, photographer, travel agent and jack-of-all-trades-he-can-get-his-face-on, cheerful and chatty as ever. _“As you’re still paying rent, I legally can’t free it up for anyone else. Even if I really want to! Besides, it will be nice to hang out. I’ve missed having you as my roommate.”_

Patrick has an immediate and visceral flashback montage of all the times Ray, with his severe and chronic lack of personal boundaries, walked in on him in some _very_ compromising positions, back when he was newly out and catching up on what he’d missed out on all those years, leading to his tendency to prefer working on-site instead of at the office he’s still, somehow, paying for. “Sorry,” Patrick says, weakly, “Can you repeat that? I think I missed the last part.”

_“Of course! I said, I’m actually just making breakfast right now, if you’d care to join me.”_

“That’s very generous of you, Ray, thank you, but I’ve already made prior plans with Stevie,” Patrick half-lies. “But, hey, I’ll see you later. Let’s, uh, let’s catch up.” He hangs up before Ray can make some lighthearted double-entendre like _I’d love to see more of you_ which would make Patrick want to never leave his house again.

Patrick pulls up to the motel after a brief coffee-and-pastry run to make good on his lie to Ray _vis-à-vis_ breakfasting with Stevie. Since he’s been working on Heather’s business at the very edge of town, it’s been a couple of weeks since they’ve properly hung out, which is dog years when you’re best friends in a community as small and tight-knit as Schitt’s Creek. Unless, last night was real, in which case it’s only been around eight hours since he called her out of bed, bleary-eyed and wearing the same pajama bottoms as him (which should be embarrassing, but, look – they’re cheap, practical, and came in a two-pack) to shuffle four wildly overdressed strangers and the contents of their filing cabinet into a pair of rooms.

Heading into reception, however, he’s immediately greeted with the long line of David Rose leaning up against the desk as he says something low and terse to Stevie, wearing this morning a pair of slouch sweats, a light ribbed sweater and what appear to be off-brand Chuck Taylors. He’s less punch-drunk beautiful in the light of day. There’s a mole on his chin, towards the right side. That mole is a _lifeline_ for Patrick’s sanity. So, question one answered: last night _was_ real. Follow-up question: _how_ did David acquire new clothes, and fancy-looking ones at that, because (a) the Roses didn’t bring any other luggage with them aside from the all of the file boxes but (b) if he was getting them from anywhere in town, he’d be wearing the same pajamas as Patrick and Stevie, and (c) well, _there’s_ a thought.

“Great. And now _he’s_ here,” David says, catching sight of him in the doorway. “The reason I find myself in this godforsaken place. I see you’ve cleaned up. Wish that could be me.”

David’s tone is aloof and standoffish, which says _don’t engage, I’m not interested_. And if Patrick took that at face value, that would be the end of it – disappointing, but he’s batting pretty far out of his league here, so striking out’s to be expected.

But Patrick caught how David’s eyes had tracked down his body, however briefly, and that says _game on_.

“Thank you, I try,” Patrick replies. “It was a close call between keeping the same outfit as last night, you know, for consistency, but I figured I’d try out a new look.”

“Very brave of you, to go outside of your comfort zone,” Stevie comments, as Patrick hands over her breakfast. “Ooh, blueberry, thank you.” She pops the lid of her coffee cup, eyeing it critically. “Did you get the—”

“—one pump of vanilla, yes, name _one_ time I’ve forgotten it—”

“Oh my _god_ ,” David cuts in, and Stevie and Patrick both turn to him – his eyes are drawn wide, flicking between the two sets of muffins and coffee sitting on the desk. “What are _those_?”

“Uh, this?” Patrick responds, somewhat thrown. He looks to Stevie, who gives him a shrug as she nibbles at her muffin. “Well, Stevie has a double-shot latte with skim milk and one pump of vanilla and a blueberry muffin, and I have a herbal tea with a banana choc chip…” Patrick trails off as David reaches over the desk, picks up Patrick’s muffin, and bites straight into it. His eyes roll closed as he chews, making a _very_ appreciative noise and a face that he really shouldn’t be making in a public space. “Um,” Patrick says, helplessly, heat rising at the back of his neck, turning again to Stevie, who looks just about as poleaxed as he feels.

“Mm,” David says, low and dreamy, after he’s polished off the muffin in record time. He plucks Stevie’s coffee off of the counter. “I’m going to take this one to go. If you ever manage to locate the towels, please have them delivered directly. Thanks so much.”

“Well, that was,” Stevie says finally.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, huskily. He clears his throat. “It sure, uh, was.”

“This may sound insane,” Stevie says distantly, after a beat, in which they both stare, haunted, out into the reception area, “But it seemed like he’d never seen a muffin before. Or, really, the concept of food. Which is crazy, right? Crazy.”

“Crazy,” Patrick echoes. He then figures there’s no point sitting on the elephant in the room. “So they’re aliens, right?”

“ _Right?_ ” Stevie exclaims. “Well, I’m glad you said it, so it’s not just me losing my mind.”

Patrick braces his elbows on the desk, leaning in conspiratorially. “For a second, last night, I was thinking time travellers. Because they were dressed like they’re from the Roaring Twenties, but then they didn’t know what a car was? And they definitely had cars back then, I looked it up.”

“You know they paid me for the rooms in like, ancient coins.” Stevie pops the till, rummaging around, and fishes out a handful of heavy golden coins, engraved in symbols Patrick can’t decipher. “What am I meant to do with these? Could you even take them into a bank?”

“I think this is actually solid gold,” Patrick says wonderingly, digging a fingernail into the edge of the coin to test its hardness. “I can call in a valuator, who can price them and get them exchanged for cash.”

“And they’re all like, insanely gorgeous too,” Stevie complains. “Which is so unfair. I mean, that’s the most solid evidence for me that they’re not from this planet, because there’s no way you can get skin that smooth from any moisturizer in our realm of existence. And believe me, I’ve tried. Even David, as annoying as he was about the towels, all I could think was ‘damn, he’s pretty.’”

“Mm,” Patrick agrees.

“So he’s definitely into me,” Stevie says, just as Patrick goes, “I’ve definitely got a shot.”

A beat, and then — “ _No,_ ” Patrick says, firmly. “No, we cannot do this again. I saw him first.”

“You have stolen _two_ boyfriends from me,” Stevie argues, “You _owe_ me this one.”

“This is exactly the—okay, first of all, one of those boyfriends was _me,_ ” Patrick counters. “I can’t steal _myself_ , and even if I could, figuring out you’re not actually into women doesn’t count as a strike against me on the breakup front, technically I had a checked swing and the pitch was a ball.”

“Don’t try to confuse me with sports metaphors,” Stevie says. “The whole thing with Jake—”

“Nope, no, absolutely not,” Patrick says, immediately. “We agreed never to discuss that.” For the sake of their friendship, Patrick’s disastrous headfirst dive out of the closet via a failed foray into polyamory that went from V-to-three-to-minus Stevie is That of Which They Do Not Speak.

“The fact remains,” Stevie continues, crossing her arms across her chest, “That I started out with two boyfriends and ended with zero. That’s pretty simple math – I mean, you’re the numbers guy, I’m pretty sure you can figure it out.” She leans back against the desk, casually-not-so-casually tilting her head over towards a pile of invoices she’s yet to file. “So, unless you have something better to offer…”

Patrick realizes, too late, that he’s walked into a trap. Stevie’s canny like that. “You’re talking about the motel records.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Stevie says, innocently, “But if you’re offering, then I accept.”

Patrick groans, pressing a hand to his temple. “Stevie, your great aunt had the worst filing system known to man. I’m pretty sure it would be a Guinness World Record if the adjudicator survived long enough to ratify it.”

“And it would be pro bono,” Stevie adds.

_“Seriously?”_

Stevie shrugs, casual as you please, but her eyes say she’s not budging. “He is _very_ pretty.”

Unfortunately, she’s not wrong – in fact, she’s very, extremely correct – and the problem is that once Patrick’s made up his mind to do something, it’s nigh impossible to unmake it. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But there’s a very real chance this might actually kill me. And that would be manslaughter, on your part.”

“I’m willing to accept that,” Stevie says, sticking out her hand for him to shake. Resignedly, Patrick takes it. “You know,” she adds, “The Roses did bring a lot of boxes with them. Looked like file boxes, actually.”

“I’m aware,” Patrick replies, dryly, “Seeing as I was pretty actively involved in their transport.”

“I’m just saying,” Stevie continues, “If you offered your services, it could be a way for you to get closer to David.”

Hot Aliens Need Naughty Secretary, For Some Reason, To Do All of Their Paperwork. Patrick shoves that thought very firmly back in the box it wriggled out of. “Suggestion noted, but I’m sure there’s better _services_ I can provide than going through all of their paperwo—”

“Oh, we gladly accept!” rings out a familiar voice, and Moira Rose sails into reception in an entirely new glamorous ensemble. Seriously, _where_ are they getting all of their clothes? “But, sweet Peter, you are entirely too generous. No! You have done too much for us already. We cannot possibly accept your offer, placing the burden of our troubles upon your strapping young shoulders. You really must value yourself more, dear.” She grips Patrick by said shoulders, offering no avenue of escape. Stevie, very deliberately avoiding his desperate looks by pretending to type something up on her computer, is getting her friendship licence revoked. “Come,” Moira evidently decides, looping her arm through his. “We shall confabulate with Mr. Rose and arrange suitable compensation.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says, as he’s practically frogmarched out of the door, “What did I, uh, agree to? Again?”

“Dear, forgetfulness is not a trait well-suited for the task ahead,” Moira admonishes. “Best to nip that in the bud.” She flings open the door to her room, _rat-ta-tapping_ her begloved hand against the doorframe like it’s an afterthought. “Johnny, children, I come bearing tidings of good fortune!”

“—a low profile, okay?” Johnny is saying to Alexis and David, who are wearing expressions in various shades of annoyance, surrounded by teetering piles of file boxes on one side of the room and an entire wall of wigs on the other. Patrick has only a moment to consider this juxtaposition before Johnny starts at the interruption, saying, “Moira, darling, that’s wonderful news, but I really do wish you would knock.”

Moira gives him a very fond look. “And knock I did,” she replies, rapping her knuckles again at the frame in demonstration. “I don’t know how I can announce my presence any more profoundly short of organizing a parade in my honour. Which we shall have! As I have brought you the answer to all of our troubles - young Percy here has graciously offered to return our fortunes to us.”

“Patrick,” Patrick corrects, hesitantly, “And did I—say that?”

“I believe that’s what I said,” Moira says, “And I said to Patrick, I said you cannot grant us this boon without proper remuneration, dear, you mustn’t sell yourself so short.”

“I really don’t think I offered—”

“Patrick Brewer, the man from the field,” Johnny says enthusiastically, shaking his hand, and Patrick is torn between being happy _someone_ has actually remembered his name and despairing at the fact that it’s appended to _the man in the field._ “I really can’t thank you enough for coming aboard. Of course, you’ll be well compensated for your time. Let’s start right away.”

“Okay, hold on, I need to get a few things straight here,” Patrick says. “First of all, _what_ exactly is the task you need doing?”

“You didn’t tell him?” Johnny directs at Moira.

“You cannot expect me to do _everything,_ ” she says. “And, on that note, I believe my work here is done.” She exits with a flourish, leaving Patrick standing awkwardly just inside the doorway.

“Where is she even _going,_ ” Alexis asks exasperatedly, not seeming to expect an answer. She then makes for the door to their adjoining room, grabbing David’s arm on the way. “Come on, David, Dad has boring business stuff to discuss with this Patrick guy, I want to try that food thing you were talking about.”

“Now, hold on a minute, kids,” Johnny says. “We were having a pretty important discussion before, so before you go, I need your word that you’ll stick to, ah—” he looks to Patrick for a moment, and then seems to temper his words, “—what we discussed.”

“But _Dad_ ,” Alexis whines, “It would make everything _so much easier_ if I could just—”

“Alexis,” Johnny warns.

Alexis throws up her hands. “Ugh! Fine! I promise, or, whatever.”

“You too, David.”

“Yeah, sure,” David says, flipping his hands vaguely. “Hope this all works out.”

“Now David, hang back for a moment,” Johnny calls out. “Patrick and I will need your assistance transporting the files to his office.” David makes a pained face and reluctantly steps away from Alexis, who gives him a smug look and a pinky-finger wave goodbye, closing the door behind her. “I am assuming you do have an office, Patrick, though, I’m sure we could perhaps make a space here…”

“No, I have my own space,” Patrick says, impatiently, “But can someone _please_ tell me what’s going on?”

“Of course,” Johnny says mildly, gesturing grandly to the motel’s sad excuse for a dining room table. “Please, join me. David, you can sit in on this too, if you’d like.”

“Okay, but it’s not really a choice, is it,” David says, moodily, “Because you just said you need me to ‘hang back’, so,” giving maybe the most deeply sarcastic airquotes Patrick’s ever seen. Patrick palms his chin to hide a smile.

“Well, son, I suppose you can stand, if that’s what you prefer,” Johnny replies, and David just _bodily_ rejects that, slumping down heavily into the chair adjacent to the one Patrick’s just taken. A thump on the table brings Patrick’s attention back to Johnny, who’s just set one of the identical boxes on top of the table, and ruffles through a few of the papers. “Now, where to begin – when I was a young man, an idea came to me, for a business that would—”

“Oh my _god,_ ” David interrupts, tipping his head to the ceiling. He turns to address Patrick. “Our business manager stole our money to go and like, commit crimes or whatever, except everyone thinks _we_ did the crimes, so now we’re hiding out in this backwater town because apparently this is the one place the tax people can’t get to us.”

“Well, it’s missing a few key details, but I suppose that is the gist of it,” Johnny mutters.

“Are you saying that Schitt’s Creek is some kind of… extradition exclusion zone?” Patrick says, incredulously.

“Well, there’s more to it than that,” Johnny says. “What David neglected to mention in his very rushed explanation of our situation is that we own this little, ah, piece of paradise. Off the books, of course – it’s a funny story, truth be told, Moira and I actually won this gentle hamlet in a rousing game of poker in quite the shady part of town back when we were—”

_“Dad.”_

Johnny clears his throat. “Of course, right you are, David, time is of the essence. Perhaps we’ll reminisce later, then. You see, Patrick, there’s an obscure bylaw pertaining to our case: prosecution of financial fraud cannot be undertaken within the bounds of a conservation area, lest the proceedings disturb the natural ecosystem.”

“I have to say, I’ve never heard of that one,” Patrick responds, perplexed. “But I’m pretty sure Schitt’s Creek isn’t a national park, or none of us would be allowed to live here.”

“Ah, well, I believe the district lines are drawn differently, where we’re from,” Johnny replies, vaguely. Out of the corner of his eye, David – presumably, being slowly consumed by ennui – slips further down into his chair, eyes rocketing up as far as they can to the ceiling. “And, seeing as we own a piece of the land, we can hold out here for as long as we need to clear our names. Which is where you come in.”

“Mr. Rose, from what you’re telling me, it sounds like what you really need is a lawyer, someone specializing in tax or contract law,” Patrick replies. “I’m just a consultant – I work with small businesses in the Schitt’s Creek and greater Elmdale area. I don’t think I’m the person you’re looking for to solve your problem, here. But I can certainly put you in contact with a great firm based up in Elmdale.”

Johnny’s already shaking his head. “Unfortunately, we can’t leave Schitt’s Creek. Which makes you exactly the man we need.”

“Well, I’m sure one of the lawyers up in Elmdale can take up temporary residence down here, for the duration of—”

“Patrick,” Johnny interrupts, gently, “We’ve had the best lawyers what remains of our money can buy looking over the documents, and they’ve come up empty-handed. No, we were defrauded by a business manager, we need someone who _thinks_ like a business manager. See, somewhere in here,” he continues, slapping the side of the box on the table, “They’ve made a mistake. And you can find it.”

Patrick looks at the file boxes stacked ceiling-high all around them, considers just how _long_ this is going to take. He considers the fact that Johnny Rose hasn’t presented him with a clear timeline for completion, or a breakdown of payment, if he even _can_ provide payment, given the state of their finances, because Patrick cannot shoulder _two_ pro bono jobs at once, he’s got to eat – and, even if he wanted to help this family out, putting all his reservations aside, he’s got other clients, who have paid for his full time and attention, that—

“It’s fine,” David says, derailing Patrick’s train of thought. “Dad, he’s clearly not interested. Dying in this town is probably better than prison.”

David’s face is closed off, disdainful, his mouth twisted tight. But there’s a flash of light, and Patrick follows it down to David’s hands, clasped in his lap, twisting one of his heavy silver rings between a thumb and forefinger, a nervous tic he might not even be aware of. _He really wants me to say yes,_ Patrick realizes, with a shock – it’s the first real glimpse he’s gotten of the David behind the mask. And Patrick wants to see more.

“Okay,” Patrick hears himself say. “I’ll do it.”

*

It’s almost lunch by the time they get all the boxes transferred over to Patrick’s office space at Ray’s, owing to the fact that it takes several trips to bring all the boxes over – unlike the previous night, when they all seemed to fit in Patrick’s car in one go. But, then again, it was kind of a surreal experience, and he was having somewhat of a gay existential crisis at the time, so it’s entirely possible he just blanked out the time he spent driving back and forth from that field for half the night.

“Redecorating, are we?” Ray asks, ever-present grin on his face under that very bold moustache as Patrick and the Roses finish solving file box-Tetris against the back wall.

“New clients,” Patrick replies. “Mr. Rose, David – Ray Butani. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of him, mostly because he has a hand in a _lot_ of the business around here.”

“Johnny Rose,” Johnny says, proffering his hand to shake. David declines to do the same, simply saying “Hi,” in a neutral tone of voice. Then again, David didn’t offer to shake _his_ hand last night either, Patrick recalls, so maybe it’s just a David thing. Although – as David’s heavy rings glint in the sunlight streaming through the office window, Patrick has the curious realization that, out of all the Roses, David’s the only one who doesn’t wear gloves.

“I’m also in civil service,” Ray adds, sunnily. “I maintain a position on the town council. But yes, as Patrick says, if you have any needs that pertain to real estate, travel, professional photography, or our newest service, closet reorganization, please don’t hesitate to contact me.” He offers one of his business cards over to Johnny, who gives him a polite smile, pocketing it. Ray then goes to his desk on the far side of the room, retrieving a manila folder. “Well, I too am dropping off some paperwork, but with much less manpower required,” he continues, giving them a wave. “Please refrain from getting crushed by all of those boxes, gentlemen. The excess on my insurance is very high, and only covers employees.”

Patrick, eyeing the pile stacked up next to David, really hopes Ray is kidding. “Okay,” he says, addressing Johnny Rose. “Show me what we’re dealing with, here.”

Johnny pops the lid on the box that’s sitting on Patrick’s desk, bringing out a few sheets. “These are just a few examples of how the documents are laid out, with…”

Patrick picks up one of the sheets as Johnny explains some of the technical details, scanning the first line, except – the words look all wrong. He squints, rubbing at his eyes, but no, he’s not hallucinating – nothing on the page is in English. Instead, in neat lines from top to bottom are fluted, curling symbols, oddly beautiful, as though designed by a classical calligrapher contracted as a military codemaster. Patrick picks up the second sheet, and the third – all of them, in the same mysterious language. “Hold on, a second, Mr. Rose,” Patrick mutters, “This is in – is it Arabic? Where are your English copies?”

“What do you mean?” Johnny asks, taking the paper from Patrick’s hands and frowning down at it. “’The undersigned takes responsibility for the items outlined in section 13A’...” Patrick looks down to where Johnny’s finger is pointing, and, just as before, can understand jack shit. “Can you not… read it?” Johnny says, more doubtful, this time.

“Is it in code, then?” Patrick asks, feeling a creeping sense of dread. “Mr. Rose, are they… _all_ written like this?”

“Oh dear,” Johnny says, rather faintly, as David provides an equally optimistic, “Oh my god, well, we’re definitely stuck here forever, then.”

“It’s fine, it’s just—going to take a bit longer,” Patrick mutters, absolutely _kicking_ himself for not checking the documents before he jumped into bed with the Roses – and not even the specific bed he’s hoping to jump into. Patrick’s not going to back out once he’s made a commitment – a deal’s a deal, even if it’s not on paper yet – but, good _god_ could this have not been more of a curveball.

“How much do you believe this revelation would affect our timeline?” Johnny asks.

“Months,” Patrick answers, honestly. “At the very least. Every single document will need transcribing. Normally I’d just ask for a cipher, but because this is legal documentation it’s better if everything is translated in its original context, which means someone fluent in this script will need to assist me.” Suddenly it comes to him – there’s an opportunity here. “And I’m sure you’re very busy, Mr. Rose, I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time, so maybe, let’s say, David could come work with me on this project—”

David, scrolling through an iPhone he seems to have acquired overnight, looks up at him sharply, expression unreadable – but Johnny waves Patrick’s suggestion away seemingly without a second thought. “Nonsense, I would be happy to set aside my time. David doesn’t exactly have the, ah, experience in this area that I do.”

“Wow,” David cuts in, offended. “I literally ran three galleries back home. You all came to my openings. And until all of _this_ , they were doing very well, so I feel like I know my way around a business, thank you very much.”

“Your little installations were very impressive, of course we were all very proud,” Johnny replies. “But this is very real and complicated stuff here, son, it’s best we leave this to the professionals.”

“ _Wow_ ,” David repeats, throwing his hands up. “Well, it seems my apparently _fake_ business acumen is not required here, so. Best of luck with all of that.”

“David,” Johnny calls out after him, as he stalks towards the door, “Make sure we keep the new timeline under wraps, for the time being. Not a word to your mother, until we have a clearer idea of where we stand.”

David shoots Johnny a glare, seemingly in acknowledgment, and slams the door behind him.

Patrick frowns. “Is he…?”

“Our David can be a touch dramatic,” Johnny replies. “Not to worry. Now, what do you say we get these boxes whipped into shape?”

“Sure,” Patrick says, somewhat distantly, lingering on the doorway.

*

The next morning, bright and early, Patrick meets up with Johnny at the Café Tropical to discuss the logistics of how best to split the workload. Johnny is perfectly punctual, dressed as yesterday in a bespoke, expensive suit and fine leather gloves, armed with a briefcase and a can-do attitude. Patrick’s certainly had worse business partners, even if a part of him thinks, vaguely wistfully, about the younger Rose sitting across from him instead, probably doing something obscene to the breakfast sausage that the Rose patriarch is carving up nice and politely with his knife and fork.

“So I’ve set up a meeting with the mayor,” Patrick says, once he’s cleaned his plate of scrambled eggs and they’ve hashed out a pretty respectable timeline between the two of them. Sure, it’s no quicker than the months of work that Patrick had initially guesstimated, but it’s definitely achievable now – this mountain of boxes now has a mapped route, rather than a blind scramble to the summit. “He should be here right about—now, actually,” he finishes, clocking Roland Schitt as he steps into the café. Patrick stands up, waving him over, then allows him to slide into Patrick’s side of the booth before sitting back down himself.

Juxtaposed across the booth – Johnny in crisp formalwear, perfectly groomed and coiffed, and Roland in baggy jeans and a flannel over a suspiciously stained tee, paired with a mullet that’s too much party and not enough business – the two men are like night and day. Roland tips his cap at Johnny, giving him a toothy grin. “A little birdie in a business suit told me there were some fancy new folks in town looking for the mayor. So I present to you: me. Roland Schitt, mayor of Schitt’s Creek. And, if I had to toot my own horn, a pretty stand-up guy – unless I’m sitting down!” He laughs, raucously, at his own joke, grabbing Johnny’s hand and pumping it vigorously. Johnny has a very deer-in-the-headlights expression at this exchange, and Patrick indulges a moment of petty-minded satisfaction at one of the Roses being pushed off-balance for a change. “But hey, enough about me. What brings you to our proud yet humble town?”

“Johnny Rose,” Johnny says, after a moment of recovery. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr., ah, Schitt. My family and I have found ourselves in somewhat unfortunate circumstances, and are taking some time to address our situation from a… healthy distance. I’ve asked Patrick to arrange a meeting with you as I believe we’re entitled to subsidized accommodation as the owners of this town.” He fishes out what is ostensibly the deed to the town from his briefcase, laying it down on the table with a flourish.

“Good one, Johnny,” Roland says, amused, “Kind of niche, but we can work on the delivery—oh, shit. Huh. This is actually the real deal.”

The deed is in English – the only document Patrick’s seen, so far, that is. That, in itself, is interesting – but it’s immediately dwarfed, as Patrick quickly skims through the meat of the litigation, by three key things: first, the date of the document, signed on this day of July 2nd, 1922; second, the actual founder and first mayor of Schitt’s Creek, Horace Schitt, is the one signing away the town, but, finally, the other signee is _John Michael Rose._

Could be coincidence, a family line – not uncommon for sons to be named for their fathers, upholding tradition through the generations, and maybe Johnny just decided to break ranks when David was born. Except that Patrick’s gotten a first taste at the Rose financials, and that signature is a dead ringer for Johnny Rose’s own penmanship.

“Well, would you look at that,” Roland exclaims, tapping the signatures. “Your great-grandfather and mine, paving the way for greatness. Seems like we were destined to be the best of friends, huh Johnny-boy?”

“It sure can be, ah, interpreted that way, Roland,” Johnny says, full of false cheer. “Say, Patrick, why don’t you stick around for a—”

“Hey, Patrick, I’ve got your breakfast order,” Twyla interrupts. “You still want this to go? I can get it plated, if you’d like to stay for a while longer.”

“Thank you, Twyla,” Patrick says, getting up from the table and accepting the bag from her. “But I’ve got other business to attend to. Roland, a pleasure, as always – I’ll leave you both to it.”

He walks quickly over to the motel, excitement simmering up under his skin. _Proof_ , this time, actual tangible, _documented_ evidence, that he’s right on the money. “Time travellers,” Patrick says to Stevie, in lieu of greeting. “They have to be. Maybe cars were more common in urban areas in the ‘20s, and rural towns were still using the horse and cart. And sure, David’s probably just _really_ into food. Stevie, the Roses actually _own_ the town. It’s Johnny’s name on the deed, _from 1922_.”

“That’s a lot to take in before breakfast,” Stevie says, after a moment. Patrick hands her over the paper bag of Café Tropical’s finest – which is to say, moderately edible. “Thanks. So, then, what’s with all the boxes?”

“For all intents and purposes, they’ve been framed for financial crimes,” Patrick replies. “Tax, fraud, laundering – white collar stuff. Apparently owning this town, through some legal loophole, gives them immunity as long as they stay here.”

“Is that? A thing?” Stevie asks, and Patrick shrugs. “Okay, so then, would any of this get you in trouble with, like, the time police?”

“Well, in terms of _current_ legal standings, I should be in the clear,” Patrick says. “The crimes have already been committed, so I’m not an accessory to them if I’m just looking through paperwork.”

“Okay, but what about _me_ , then,” Stevie says, her voice colouring a little with nerves. “Am I harbouring fugitives?”

“Technically, they’re paying you to stay here, and they’re on the books,” Patrick replies. “If it’s all above board, you’re not hiding them. If someone comes for them and you don’t stand in their way, you shouldn’t be liable. But I can double-check that, if it’d make you feel better.”

“Thanks,” Stevie says, shooting him a small smile. Which then turns sly, at the edges. “So you _are_ doing their paperwork, then, huh. Wonder what convinced you to commit to that? Or, should I say, who?”

“Well, it turns out the payment agreement was _very_ generous,” Patrick replies, smirking – which it actually was, innuendo aside, once he and Johnny papered it. Weird, ancient coins runneth over. Stevie gives him a few _mhmm, uh huh_ ’s, coupled with an over-exaggerated wink.

“As long as you have time to do—” Stevie begins, then trails off, frowning down at her coffee. Patrick looks over – apropos of nothing, it’s started to ripple. Then, the desk jolts violently, splashing the coffee over the dark wood, as the rest of the room starts to shake.

“What the—” Patrick begins. “Is this an _earthquake?_ ”

“Shit, shit, _shit_ ,” Stevie splutters, panicked, spinning wildly in place. “The safety guide doesn’t cover earthquakes, what do we do?”

“Doorframe,” Patrick says, grabbing Stevie’s arm, and— “No, wait. Under the desk? _Shit_ , um, one of them is bad, I don’t remember which.”

“Just _pick one_ ,” Stevie yells – the desk is closer, so he ducks under it, pulling Stevie with him. Patrick presses his back against the trembling wood, wincing as something loud crashes down behind them, and pulls up his phone. Out of the corner of his eye, Stevie gives him a half-terrified, half-incredulous look. “Are you seriously _googling_ it right now?”

“I don’t know!” Patrick shouts, throwing his arms up, to the extent that they can be thrown up in this cramped space. “Maybe I’ll feel better dying if I know I made the right call!”

“I don’t want to _know_ that I’m going to die!” Stevie wails, as the cacophony around them reaches a fever pitch. “Stop it, give me—” she continues, grappling for his phone, and he tries to wrest it out of her iron grip—

As abruptly as it had begun, the shaking ceases. Everything seems to slowly settle around them, the silence only broken by a light rolling sound, and then a single pencil drops to the floor in front of the desk. Stevie looks at Patrick, and Patrick looks at Stevie, and she wordlessly hands him back his phone.

“Huh,” Patrick says, voice cracking a little. He clears his throat, and shows Stevie the page that’s just loaded. “You’re meant to crouch _next_ to the desk, not under it.”

“Good to know for next time,” Stevie replies, faintly. Her eyes then widen. “Oh god, the _guests_.”

 _David,_ Patrick thinks, panic blooming up anew, and they both scramble out from under the desk, somehow managing to elbow each other in the process, Patrick kicking the chair out of the way and Stevie levering herself up with one of the drawer handles. Patrick gets out ahead of her, vaulting over a section of roof planted in the middle of the reception area and skidding a little on the pool of coffee by the entrance, sending him flying straight out of the door – now hanging drunkenly off of his hinges – where he regains his footing in a sideways sprint down to the Rose family’s rooms.

“David,” he yells out, panting, as he flings open the door, “Alexis, Mrs. Rose, are you o…kay.” Patrick trails off, because instead of the carnage he was expecting to see in front of him, Moira and Johnny’s suite is very much intact. David is standing in the middle of the room, clutching his face with an expression of sheer mortification, and Alexis is – kneeling down by the closet, saying something in a low voice. “I, the uh, earthquake,” Patrick continues, lamely. “It’s not safe to be in here, we need to evacuate.”

Alexis turns her head to acknowledge him. “Okay, Patrick, that sounds _great_ ,” she says, brightly, “But I’m kind of in the middle of something right now so maybe _you_ can go do the evacuation thing and have, like, _so_ much fun for me, okay? And David,” she continues, her tone hardening a touch, “Maybe you can _go get Dad?”_

“Right,” David says, pulling his hands off of his face and fidgeting with one of his heavy silver rings. “Yep, okay. I’ll get right onto that.”

“Alexis, the structural integrity of the building is compromised,” Patrick tries, again. “There could be aftershocks. You really must—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, let’s go,” David mutters, placing a hand on his back to steer him out of the room. A thick sob follows them out of the door, and Patrick cranes his neck back, trying to place it before David shuts it behind them.

“Was that…” Patrick begins, disbelievingly, as he starts piecing a few things together. “Was that _Moira_ crying in the closet?”

“Mm,” David confirms, making a face as he side-steps a twisted section of guttering. “Someone _may_ have let slip that the whole paperwork thing was going to take longer than she anticipated, and, uh, she did _not_ take it well.”

Patrick’s shellshocked brain defaults to its safe space, which is putting together the bare-boned facts of the situation and taking stock: (1) an earthquake tears through the entire motel, except for two rooms, which (2) both happen to be housing the Roses, one of which (3) is evidently having a breakdown, which the other Roses are far more concerned about than the actual _earthquake_ = Moira Rose has turned Stevie’s motel into rubble. _Oh my god,_ Patrick thinks, dazedly, _is this even possible? Am I losing my mind?_ and then he just—he takes a long, calming breath, puts that in a little box and files it away for later.

Some of the other motel guests are milling around outside, looking dusty and dazed, but, thankfully, no one seems to have sustained anything worse than a few bumps and bruises – he clocks Carol, a former client and one of the regular weekenders, and she waves him over. “ _Patrick_ , so glad you’re alright,” she says, patting at his cheek. “I have good news, of a sort – I just got off the phone with my sister downtown, and she says they didn’t feel a thing! Whatever this is, it seems like it’s only affected the motel.”

“Very strange,” Patrick says neutrally, glancing over to David, who nods along, mouth pressed in a thin smile. His fidgety hands tell an entirely different story. _Well, fuck,_ he thinks, suspicions pretty much confirmed, _guess we’re back to the supernatural._

“I’ve already rallied the troops,” Carol continues cheerily. “My sister and a few of the girls in the bowls club have some rooms to spare between them, so everyone here’s taken care of. I just called you over to ask if you – or your friend, here – were in need of a place to stay.”

“That’s very kind, Carol, but I’m fine – I’ve got a place out of town, I was just here to talk to Stevie.” Patrick smiles, and, without breaking eye contact, gives David an amicable clap to the shoulder. “David here though was renting a couple of rooms along with his family.”

“Oh, you poor dears,” Carol says, rounding on David. David shrinks back, his smile drawing even tighter. “Your whole _family_ , that’s simply awful, how many rooms will you be needing?”

“Ah, no need, no need,” comes the voice of Johnny Rose, and Patrick looks over to see him arrive at the scene, a fatherly arm wrapped around Stevie, who still appears to be in a vague state of shock. Roland, bringing up the rear, whistles at the sight of what’s left of the motel, muttering something to Stevie that Patrick can’t quite make out, except for maybe the words _refund_ and _special weekend_ , which, on second thought, he really doesn’t want to hear about – and, judging from Stevie’s face, neither does she.

“Okay, but why not hear her out?” David asks. “Patrick _did_ say the structural intensity—”

“Integrity,” Patrick provides.

“— _integrity_ of the building has been compromised, and if there’s the possibility of maybe upgrading from a single bed to a—”

“Thank you, ma’am, for your generosity,” Johnny cuts in firmly, “But we could not possibly impose any more than we already have. No, as I’ve already told Stevie here, my family and I will be staying put and we will be taking care of _all_ of this. No expenses spared.” He smiles down at Stevie, who gives him a wobbly one in return, and some of the tension Patrick’s been holding in starts to dissipate. Mr. Rose then turns back to the assembled crowd, pitching his voice louder. “And I would love to see all of you back here, at a time to be determined, for the grand reopening of the, ah—” he hesitates, looking to Stevie again for a moment, and then continues: “The grand reopening of the Budd Motel.”

There’s some scattered applause – it was, unexpectedly, a very rousing speech. Stevie, deeply uncomfortable being the focus of this much public attention, tries her darndest to shrink into the background. “Bless you, Mr. Rose,” Carol says, beaming. “I’ll get the word out. We wouldn’t miss it.”

“I’ll put in a good word to the top brass for some of the permits,” Roland adds, “I know a guy.” He winks, giving Johnny an overly enthusiastic elbow nudge which Johnny weathers with grace.

“Much appreciated, thank you,” Johnny replies, as Roland is taken aside by a few of the guests from the gradually dissipating crowd with more specific concerns. “Now, Stevie,” he says, softer, slipping his arm out from her shoulder and turning to face her, “Are you sure you’re going to be alright?”

Stevie scrubs at the back of her neck, giving him a watery laugh. “Sure, Mr. Rose. I think so.”

“I’ve got her, Mr. Rose,” Patrick says quickly.

Johnny claps his hands together. “Well, if that’s all taken care of, I believe I must attend to my wife,” he says. “Come along now, David.”

David gives Stevie and Patrick a sidelong glance, as though he’d really much rather one of them give him an excuse not to get dragged back into that room, and, well—Patrick can have this big, dumb crush on David and fantasize about their dirty weekend getaways to a charming cottage in the English countryside where David is his spoiled, sultry kept man and they make love six ways from Sunday in a golden field of canola flowers softly undulating in the breeze, and _also_ have zero desire to save him from the consequences of (allegedly) triggering his mother into setting off a seismic event that reduced Stevie’s livelihood into rubble. It’s called multitasking, and Patrick likes to think he’s pretty good at prioritizing what’s more important at any given moment. So he crosses his arms, stonewalling David’s pleading look, and David deflates, allowing his father to lead him over to the only two rooms still standing. God knows how they’re going to work with the plumbing.

Anyway. “‘The Budd Motel’, huh?” Patrick says, gently, nudging his shoulder against Stevie’s. “Didn’t know this place actually had a name. Has a nice ring to it.”

“Sure,” Stevie mutters, swiping her flannel sleeve across her eyes. “For what’s left of it, I guess.”

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Patrick says. “I’m going to get an appointment with that valuator so we can turn all that gold into actual money, and then I’m taking the afternoon off and coming to your place, and you and I are going to have some _very_ strong drinks. How does that sound?”

Stevie takes a fortifying breath, letting it out in a quick huff, and then loops her arm in his. “I think it sounds a lot better than your earthquake safety plan,” she replies sardonically, and Patrick ducks his head, grinning – god, he loves her grit. “So let’s drink to that.”

*

The day after the earthquake, Patrick comes into work early. Not because he feels particularly enthused about seizing the day – he is, in fact,  _deeply_ hungover – but because he took the afternoon off yesterday and is thus cursed with the nagging sense of obligation to make up the hours, which forcibly picks up his body like a marionette and drags it into the office. They probably shouldn’t have opened that second bottle of whiskey, but after Stevie was confronted with the revelation that _Moira_ may have destroyed the motel and hit the sauce with a vengeance, Patrick figured it was within his duty of care as a guest in her house to keep up.

He somehow manages to get a halfway decent breakdown of improvements that can be made to Heather’s monthly expenses up by around mid-morning when a loud knock resounds from the doorframe right into his skull. He scrubs at his face, looking up blearily from his laptop, and immediately regrets it. David is here, looking like a million bucks, as per usual, in a chic black and white sweater and dark, artfully distressed skinny jeans, swinging some designer shades casually off one hand. Patrick, wearing yesterday’s clothes and feeling like death, probably comes off more like the Greek economy circa 2010.

“My dad sends his regards, and that he’s unable to come into the office due to the whole thing at the motel,” David says. “And that he can work part-time on the files at the motel and ‘cross-check’ them with you, whatever that means. So, I guess I’m the backup plan. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Patrick says tiredly, waving him over. “Take a seat, I’ll bring out the breakdown we’ve drawn out.” Through his brain sludge, he registers that, technically, he’s just got what he wanted – David working with him. But, oh god, at what _cost._ It seems like every time he sees David he looks like he’s been just dragged out from under a bridge. And it’s not like Patrick’s a real catch on the best of days – never the Abercrombie & Fitch store model, always the assistant manager – but at this point it’s almost like he’s _conditioning_ David to never find him the least bit attractive.

“Are you… okay?” David asks, and Patrick realizes he’s just been staring down at the sheet in front of him for longer than is strictly polite when in company.

Great. Now he has to admit he’s hungover at work, too, which is deeply unprofessional. “Fine,” Patrick mutters. “Just, had a few too many drinks last night, with Stevie.” _You are a mealy little worm,_ he tells himself, giving into the black pit of despair. _You are the lowest, mealiest, worm._

David frowns. “Well, I don’t know why the two of you would try to drown yourselves. Seems like a poor choice. I mean, sure, living in this town is barely a step above death, but if _I_ can weather it, surely the two of you can find the strength to keep your heads above water. So to speak.”

It takes a few moments for the tired gears of Patrick’s brain to click – _David’s never been drunk_. That could be something fun to unpack once Patrick inevitably reneges on his solemn vow this morning to never drink again. “You’re very brave,” Patrick replies, instead. “I’m deeply moved and inspired by your resilience.”

“Thank you. I’m just taking it one day at a time,” David replies, carelessly. “So, like, what are we doing here, then. Show me the breakdown thingie.”

Patrick considers his throbbing head and his need for a few minutes of reprieve, and makes a quick decision. “Actually, before we do that, there’s one thing I need you to do,” he replies. “There’s three boxes there labelled RF 2, 4 and 10 – can you bring those over to Johnny at the motel, so he can make a start on his sections?”

“You want me to carry _all of these?_ ” David asks, skipping up an octave and whipping an accusatory hand at the boxes in question, “ _All_ the way to the motel?”

So, _that_ was a mistake. Patrick just wants to lay down and die, right here on this desk. “Maybe just start with one,” he says, weakly. “We’ll see how we go from there.”

How they ‘go from there’ turns out to be mainly downhill – not steeply, but in an area where government funds needed for road maintenance have been as poorly managed as the unsealed road they’re trucking along. The cost of freeing up some time for Patrick to pop a few more Tylenol and basically chug an entire water cooler in the hopes of being less of a disgusting creature by the time David gets back was that being coerced into carrying a single box all the way back to the motel really doesn’t endear him to David at all, leaving said maybe-alien in a sour mood for the rest of the morning. By the time lunch rolls around, Patrick – who normally brings in a healthy packed lunch he eats at his desk – caves into his emotional and physical exhaustion and decides to order pizza into the office.

“Okay, _what_ is happening now,” David says, startling as the pizza boy drops off the delivery. “How are we getting in _more_ boxes? I am _not_ taking these to the motel.”

“Oh, but you just seemed to be having so much fun,” Patrick mutters, pressing a generous tip into the deliveryman’s palm. He checks the first box – margarita, the least guilt-inducing option, that’s for him – and hands the second box over to David. “For your troubles.”

David takes the box, perplexed, and Patrick – now sat atop his desk, own pizza box balanced in his lap – witnesses the exact moment the delicious smell of a greasy, calorific pizza hits his nose. He’s like a kid on Christmas, clocking that the largest box under the tree has air-holes, putting two and two together to figure out he’s getting a puppy. David flips open the lid, eyes like saucers – Patrick ordered him a Hawaiian, on the basis that the pineapple would probably appeal to the sweet tooth David seemed to reveal during Muffingate – and then looks over to Patrick, who’s already chowing down on his first slice. Following Patrick’s lead, David takes a deep bite into his own slice – head tilted back, eyes fluttering closed, sinking down into his chair with a happy sigh. Patrick leans back, grinning around his mouthful of pizza, and enjoys the show. God bless America’s fiftieth state.

“Um, thank you, for this,” David says, softly, once he’s demolished the entire box, licking grease off of his fingers in a way that is – like most things he does – deeply, unfairly sexy. “I’m not going to move any more boxes, but. This was very nice.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” Patrick says, taking his empty box and setting it aside. “Let’s get back to work, shall we?”

*

So it turns out that their first day on the job wasn’t just a rough start. No, David Rose is, indeed, somewhat of a nightmare to work with.

Patrick got more work done in the afternoon he spent with Johnny Rose than in the first few days he spends with David. For starters, David’s always late – never gets in before 10 am – and never really wants to stick around more than a few hours. And that’s _including_ lunch. During the time he actually _does_ do anything tantamount to work – which is, ostensibly, reading aloud pages that Patrick dutifully transcribes on his laptop – he frequently peppers it with complaints, or unsolicited opinions on Patrick’s process and his inability to just _read_ the words, as though everyone knows alien runes, or whatever the hell these documents are written in. _Patrick, why are there so many globes on your desk, is this the only way you get to see the world outside this office?_ Lesser men would be driven to madness. For Patrick? The real problem here is it honestly just makes David all the more attractive.

See, the thing about Patrick is that he _loves_ a challenge – getting his teeth into something, grinding it down, cracking through to taste the marrow. That was the problem with Jake, who had an ass that won’t quit and the emotional range of a teacup. It cut short his time with Ken, who was wholesome and sweet and was happy to go along with whatever Patrick wanted to do, which got old fast (and, as an aside, just wore weird-looking shoes). There was a guy in Elmdale he had a brief thing with who was hardworking, disciplined, _gorgeous,_ basically cut from granite – but unfortunately had the intelligence and repartee hewn from the self-same block of stone. And so on. David’s like a Greek statue with a tongue that could flay the skin off his sculptor for fucking up a single strand of hair – and Patrick can’t wait to carve his own notch in that hunk of marble.

The initial meat of the documentation concerns the core financials of what is ostensibly the Rose family business, which seems to be some kind of entertainment empire known as Rose Video. When asked, David hedges that it’s _like Netflix, but physical,_ which raises a couple of questions – first, how David even knows about Netflix, when he’s literally just discovered pizza, and secondly, whether this means they’re literally peddling in videos, VHS slash DVD style, or it’s a translational quirk and _like Netflix, but physical_ pertains to something different entirely, an alien technology Patrick couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

Either way, this ex-business manager of theirs knows their shit – dotted their i’s and crossed their t’s, or whatever the equivalent saying is pertaining to what Patrick is referring to in his head as the Rose cipher. Which, as frustrating as it is to have this kind of bottleneck in a project, relying on translation through dictation (David) or transcription (Johnny, occasionally David, when he can be motivated) which both, surprisingly, have the same turnaround time – Stevie tells him, later, that she’s been further burdened with the torturous task of teaching Johnny how to use a computer – it’s also kind of fascinating to be analyzing documents in an entirely different language. In the movies, there would be a montage where he scans all the documents in and then he and David work together to write a software program to automatically decode everything and save them a hell of a lot of time, but he’s no Amy Adams, so the best he can really do is draw up his own little ‘codebreaker’ spreadsheet with terms that frequently crop up.

And by the end of the first week, he gets a new term: David Rose.

The first hint he gets, now branching out into Rose Video subsidiaries, holdings, and, ostensibly, shell corporations – which seem to be, somehow, a universal constant – is when David, reading out a line in a bored tone, abruptly stops, mid-sentence. There’s nothing particularly interesting so far on this subsidiary, so David’s reaction sure is… odd.

“‘Payment, in full, facilitated by Envaline Solutions, to clients with verified purchases from Veilsight, Ten to the Dozen, and Rosetree galleries…’” Patrick prompts.

“Those are my galleries,” David says uncertainly, eyes flicking rapidly as he reads ahead. He taps an incomprehensible set of squiggles. “See? David Rose, right there.”

“You know I can’t read that,” Patrick reminds him.

David huffs in irritation, and goes back to the original line. “‘…Veilsight, Ten to the Dozen, and Rosetree galleries, can only be delivered under the conditions of (1) original invoice provided of purchase of one (1) art piece on display at the listed businesses and (2) signed consent from John Michael Rose or Moira Rose or Eli Lily.'" When that name had first started popping up in documents, Patrick had been perplexed as to why an American pharmaceutical giant was so heavily involved in the Rose financials, before putting together that, no, _this_ Eli Lily is their former business manager. Which also insinuates that the people, for lack of a better term, where the Roses are from are all named after flowers. Not particularly pertinent to any of the work they're actually doing here, but intriguing, nonetheless. "'Any accounts associated with David Rose are strictly prohibited from fulfilling funding requirements'," David continues, increasingly incensed, "Like, what do they mean my accounts aren’t getting credited? Those were _my_ collections, painstakingly curated from the most celebrated artistic minds of a generation. Did that asshole steal money from there, too?”

Patrick considers the document he’s just typed up on his screen. “For starters, David, your accounts are being forbidden from being _debited_ for this payment. Which means the money in there can’t be touched.”

“Well, alright, then,” David says, righteous wind petering out of his sails. “But I still don’t get why this random company is involved with my galleries. Like, okay, my parents provided some startup funding, which I guess is in here somewhere, but we haven’t even gotten to those documents yet.”

“If I’m understanding this correctly,” Patrick says, slowly, “It appears that anyone who bought one of your paintings was wired money after showing proof of purchase to Mr. or Mrs. Rose – which, as a fee for services already rendered, makes this a legal exchange instead of a bribe, so at least that’s—”

 _“Oh my god,”_ David squawks, slamming the sheet down on the table and getting up so fast he tips over his chair. He stalks, furious, around the room. “Oh my _fucking_ god, they paid them off. Mom and Dad _paid_ my patrons to do business with me! Every single piece of art I ever sold was _bought_ _by my parents!”_

A cold breeze flutters some of the papers on Patrick’s desk. Summer storms can come in quick and fast – Ray must’ve left a window open, somewhere. “Hey,” Patrick says, gentling his tone. “Maybe this is all just a misunderstanding.”

“It’s a _legal document_ ,” David says, acidly. “Nothing is more clear-cut than that. I may be a complete failure at everything I’ve ever tried to achieve, but at least that’s something I _do_ know.”

 _This is very real and complicated stuff here, son,_ Johnny Rose had said, apparently very much on the nose, and Patrick feels a sharp jab of sympathy for David. He can get that, in a family as charmingly dysfunctional as the Roses, it’s a way they’ve tried to lend their support, to make David’s success assured. But it’s just clipping his wings before he even gets a chance to fly. And someone like David could never be satisfied with life on the ground.

Patrick checks the time. “You know what, I think we’ve made pretty good progress. Let’s call it a day. I’m thinking of grabbing an early dinner, if you want to join me.”

Food always manages to cheer David up – right on schedule, the tension seems to drop from his shoulders. He eyes Patrick carefully. “At the café?”

“Further afield, actually,” Patrick replies, packing up. “An old client runs a place I really like. If you’re interested.”

David sniffs. “I suppose I could eat.”

The summer storm doesn’t seem to have broken as they drive up the road towards Elmdale, clouds still swirling moodily above them. Patrick puts the radio on – an old Mariah song comes on, one that Patrick could maybe remember a few words from the chorus if pressed, but David seems to like it, tapping his fingers at the sill, a small-half smile forming on his face. “I think you’ll like this place,” Patrick says, a couple of songs later. “It’s one of the hottest dining spots in Elmdale, and not just because I—”

“ _Elmdale?”_ David says, gone from almost-cheerful to panicked in an instant. “No, no, Patrick, I can’t leave Schitt’s Creek, you have to turn back.”

“It’ll be fine, it’s just for a couple hours,” Patrick assures him, “We won’t tell anyone I snuck you out for a quick bite.”

“No, Patrick, you don’t understand,” David says, _very_ panicky, now, “I _can’t_ leave Schitt’s Creek. You have to turn back _now_.”

“If that’s what you want,” Patrick replies slowly, flicking on his turn signal as they come up to the town limits, the back of the horribly inappropriate _Welcome to Schitt's Creek_ sign looming large in front of them—his car makes a wet, spluttering noise, his accelerator suddenly completely unresponsive, and begins to slow right down. Patrick barely wrests it to the side of the road before it comes to a complete stop – incidentally, right under the sign. “What the fuck,” he mutters, turning on his hazard lights. His gas tank is completely full. Must be some kind of mechanical issue? “Hang tight David, I’m going to—”

The passenger door slams shut, David tripping out onto the grass where it meets the tarmac in his haste to get out of the car. “Get us a tow,” Patrick finishes, to himself. He sighs, and then follows David out of the car, dialling up Bob’s Garage.

Bob gives him an ETA of about an hour, which Patrick manages to sweeten to twenty with the promise of a quick consult about a new bagel business he wants to launch. Patrick hangs up, knowing he still got the better deal – Bob’s Bagels is dead in the water, and it’ll only take about five minutes of his day to swing by and lay out the numbers that will very clearly spell that out for him. For the duration of the call, David’s been kicking around at tufts of grass, periodically rubbing at his wrists, but never walking out past the signpost. As Patrick finishes up, he’s come to a standstill just behind it, staring out into the distance.

Patrick has something lighthearted and snarky to say about Bob’s Bagels that dries up on his tongue once he sees David’s face – achingly beautiful in profile against the grey light of the coming storm, stonily gazing out past the Schitt’s Creek town limits, mouth curled tight and down. “Are you okay?” Patrick asks instead.

David takes a sharp, shuddery breath, gaze still fixed on the road ahead. “Well, I’m stuck in this shitty town, pun very much intended, and I had one thing that was getting me through the day – going back to my life, the legacy I created for myself – or, I thought I did, because, turns out, it’s a complete and total lie. So, I don’t know, Patrick – you tell me. Because I, apparently, know nothing.”

Patrick considers his angle, here, and then steps in front of David, forcing David to look at him instead of the road – well, as much as he can, considering the height difference. “David, your situation sucks. I get that, I do. But the way I see it, you can either sit here and continue to make yourself miserable, or you can _do_ something about it, so, how about this – I can teach you what I know. We’re working on this thing together – why not do it _together?_ That way, everything gets done faster, and when you get back home, you can build something _real_.”

David looks at him, for a long moment, eyes flinty and unreadable, and Patrick wonders briefly if he went too far – if he should’ve softened his approach, played the sympathy card – but quashes that thought. No clipping the wings, here. Sometimes you just have to push ‘em out of the nest. “Do we have a deal?” Patrick asks, sticking out his hand.

“Okay,” says David, finally. His mouth twists back up, just at one corner. He pulls his sweater sleeve – which looks kind of singed, for some reason – down to cover his hand and takes Patrick’s gingerly, giving it a quick shake.

Which is weird, but. It’s a start.


	2. if music be the food of love, alexa, play 'gimme more'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(If we were honest and both wrote a sonnet, together a sandwich[with everything on it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKoBTEcq8Ck))_   
> 

The Roses settle into life in Schitt’s Creek like square pegs confronted with a round hole – with enough persistence, rounding off the edges, they make it work. Johnny is apparently determined not to get any outside help to fix up the motel – which, on the plus side, saves Stevie a ton of money, but on the other hand, the fact that it makes for slow going is an _understatement_. Alexis seems to be everywhere – hanging with Twyla at the café, trailing along behind Mutt Schitt and his very even beard as he does… whatever it is that he does, to loitering around Ted’s vet practice. From what Patrick’s heard, Moira’s joined the Jazzagals. Every Rose finds their place, so Patrick’s personal mission becomes making sure David feels like he doesn’t just have to grimly bear his own slice of life in Schitt’s Creek, but maybe even _actually_ enjoy it. And if it helps David finally start to see Patrick as someone he could actively desire and put an end to Patrick’s suffering, well, that’s a very convenient bonus.

Food’s an easy place to start. ‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’ has never applied more to any being in the known universe than it does to David. Patrick experiments with David’s tastebuds, working through his palate – he’s definitely got a sweet tooth, enjoys savoury and salty fare, but deals _terribly_ with spicy food, anything overly bitter, and has a limited tolerance for sour. His coffee order is a macchiato part-skimmed, two sweeteners and a dusting of cocoa powder, because of course it is.

He brings David with him to meetings with Heather, under the premise that David is shadowing him on consulting matters, but also because Heather always caters an incredible spread – and David’s gushing enthusiasm for said spread probably is a contributing factor to the very nice bonus Heather later tips Patrick for the quarter. They start doing movie nights with Stevie, and David falls head over heels for romcoms and reality TV, takes an inadvisably large gulp from his first glass of whiskey, chokes, declares he will _never touch alcohol again_ , and Patrick and Stevie look at each other and silently resolve that one day, David Rose is going to get _drunk._

The downside is that all this indulgence means Patrick is going on a lot of morning runs. Partly because, unlike David’s magical metabolism that apparently just means he can eat anything he wants without consequence, Patrick’s was sent up to live on a farm around the same time as his childhood pet rabbit, Fluffernutter, never to be heard from again. The main driving factor, however, is that he’s now going through a very long dry spell, and with the shit he has to put up with – David’s hand accidentally brushing his thigh while they’re watching Notting Hill, David putting his tongue to work against a rapidly-melting popsicle on a hot day, David stretching and one of his ever-present designer sweaters hiking up to show a rare and tantalizing strip of skin – cold showers just don’t cut it.

Either way, it’s baseball season, and if sexual frustration puts Patrick in probably in the best shape of his _life_ by the time he runs out into the pitch in the opening game, then he’s in it to goddamn win.

“As you can see, I got him to come, but only on the provision that there would be barbecue,” Stevie says, as Patrick passes her off a loaded ‘dog, sitting down next to her. “Don’t think he’s particularly interested in sports.”

“I can live with that,” Patrick replies, clocking David hovering over by the barbecue, waiting for his turn to eat. “Doesn’t matter if he’s not into baseball, so long as he’s into one of the players.”

“Well, it was hard to tell with the angle,” Stevie replies, “But I’m pretty sure that he was checking out your ass when you were up to bat.”

So he _is_ making headway. Hopefully, the payoff from all work he’s been putting into showing David a good time is David forgetting all about meeting him in his ugly pajamas in the middle of the night. And that time he was hideously hungover at work. “Bases are loaded,” Patrick murmurs. Third time’s the charm, so it’s time to step up to the plate.

“Weird thing to say about your own ass,” Stevie comments.

“I wasn’t—” Patrick begins, and then shakes his head. “It’s just—if he’s into me, and I’m into him, and he _has_ to know, at this point, because if I was any more obvious I’d be putting it in skywriting, then why isn’t this happening?”

“Aren’t you two like, literally dating at this point?” Stevie asks.

“No, we’re not _dating,_ ” Patrick retorts. “We’re working together, we go to lunch. Frequently, you’re there with us. Everyone has to eat, Stevie.”

“Fine, then, if you don’t want to listen, then don’t ask me,” Stevie says. “You’re the one who bought me off with paperwork, you figure it out. Which,” she adds, “May I remind you, is still ready and waiting to be filed.”

Patrick makes a face. “I really was hoping it was all destroyed in the earthquake.”

“You know, they’re actually packed so densely that they probably helped support that section of the building from collapsing,” Stevie replies, thoughtfully.

“Well, give it time,” Patrick mutters, darkly. “Maybe there’ll be a fire.”

“Nope, we made a deal, you don’t get to wiggle out of this just because you can’t score outside of a sports field,” Stevie says, and Patrick gives her a very, _yes, I know, obviously_ kind of look, waving her along. “So why don’t you just go over there,” she gestures over to David, who is bullying the grillmaster into getting a frankly obscene amount of toppings on his hotdog, “And _ask him?_ ”

“What? No,” Patrick scoffs. “That’s—we’re not in high school anymore, Stevie. There’s a strategy in play. You don’t just hand a guy a note that says, do you like me, check yes or no.”

“No, you don’t,” Stevie says slowly. “You use your words, like a normal person. ‘Hi David, Patrick here. I want to have sex with you. Your place or mine?’”

“Wow. That’s really—it’s inspired. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“Unless,” she pivots, “That’s not what you want, anymore.”

“Are you kidding?” Patrick asks, incredulously. He motions over at David, who is now perched atop one of the picnic tables outside the main throng of the crowd, evidently trying to fit his whole hotdog in his mouth. It’s like he does this on _purpose._

“Huh, yeah, he’s really—he’s really going for that,” Stevie says, distantly. They both take a moment to just, take _that_ all in, and then she continues. “No, I mean – unless you don’t _just_ want to hook up. I’m just saying, historically, you don’t really _do_ casual relationships.”

“I’ve had my fair share of—”

“You were engaged to your high school sweetheart,” Stevie points out. “You broke up and got back together like, a hundred times. That’s the very _definition_ of being bad at casual.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that one,” Patrick acquiesces, “And for the record, it was only three times, but this is not like that, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” Stevie says, putting up her hands in surrender. “I’m sure you have excellent moves, then. They seem to be going so well for you. So then maybe he’s only holding out because he knows you’re like, physically incompatible.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He could be a Ken Doll, down there,” Stevie says, deadpan. “There could be _tentacles_.”

“Okay, this is not constructive,” Patrick says, getting up from the bench. “I’m just going to—” Stevie gives him some suggestive eyebrows, and an even more suggestive motion with her own hotdog. “Okay, I deserved that,” he mutters.

“Get a strike!” she calls out after him.

“See, you literally just watched my game,” Patrick says, “So at this point you’re just doing this out of spite.”

“I meant the bowling kind, obviously,” she says, mocking him gloriously. “There _are_ sports other than baseball.”

By the time he makes his way over to David, stopping here and there to chat to various players – congratulate members of his own team, engage in some friendly ribbing with his rivals – David has thankfully finished the hotdog. “Hey,” Patrick says, stopping just short of walking right between the bracket of his legs. He’s not _that_ bold. “Mind if I join you?”

“I’ll allow it,” David says, airily. “How was the baseball? Are congratulations in order?”

“Well, you tell me,” Patrick replies. “You were there the whole time, it should’ve been pretty obvious which team won.”

David shrugs. “The rules are very complicated.”

“Were you maybe… distracted?” Patrick ventures, moving from a casual distance to something more deliberate. “By something in particular?”

David clears his throat, looking anywhere _but_ Patrick – his hands, the table, somewhere off into the distance. “Well, by the end of the match I could smell the barbecue starting up, so.”

“Right,” Patrick replies, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. _Well, it’s not like he would actually come out and say ‘yes, your ass’_ he thinks, somewhat sourly. “So I want to be clear about something,” he continues, “That maybe I wasn’t clear enough about before, or—Jesus, it’s hot.” He pulls his hat off of his head, swiping at the sweat on his forehead, pushing it back through his hair. The air is so warm, and thick, all of a sudden, the sun so much more intense, like he’s burning right up through his skin.

“Yeah,” David breathes. “Oh, um. Yes. The weather. Very, uh, hot.”

“And I feel like maybe, I’ve been sending, uh, mixed signals,” Patrick says, starting to feel a bit faint. He stumbles forwards another half-step, and he steadies himself – only realizing that, in doing so, his hands are now on David’s thighs. David swallows heavily, and Patrick watches the column of his throat move with it, as if through a haze. “David,” he says, pushing it out through air that’s sweet and heavy as caramel, “I—”

“Yes?” David prompts, haloed by that hot, hot sun. With vision that’s starting to swim, Patrick can just make out his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“I—” Patrick tries, again, and then he passes out.

When he comes to, it’s to a ring of concerned faces of his team and one (1) best friend. David is not among them. “I’m fine, I’m okay,” Patrick says, sitting up. “Just a bit of heatstroke, maybe.” He waves off his teammates’ offers of help, instead letting Stevie lead him over to an area in the shade, where he gulps down nearly a whole waterbottle and splashes the rest on his face. “What happened?” he asks her.

“Well, from my perspective, you went over to flirt with David, and then I guess in the moment you thought a sexy move would be to just keel over onto the ground. So, basically, you did the baseball strike, not the bowling one.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick says, burying his head in his hands. “This is a nightmare. I have to _see_ him on Monday, Stevie, I need to move town, immediately.”

“Did he show you a flash of ankle?” Stevie asks, seriously. “Did you get a case of the vapours?”

“This is not funny,” Patrick says. “I have to—”

Stevie’s phone starts buzzing. She fishes it out of her pocket, and then smiles at whoever’s on the caller ID. “Hey,” she says, on the pickup. “What’s up? Uh huh. Mm, yeah, they’re measuring out a coffin now.” At this, whoever’s on the other end starts getting quite agitated, and Stevie hands the phone over to Patrick. “It’s for you. You’re dead, by the way.”

“Hi,” Patrick says, into the receiver.

David’s panicked voice comes through. “ _—said he was fine when I—oh, Patrick_. _You are alive. Okay, that’s good to know.”_

“Didn’t really feel like dying, today,” Patrick replies. “Wrong shoes for it.” He pauses for a moment, pinching his temple. “I’m sorry about all of that, I really don’t know what came over me.”

_“Hot. Day, as you said, a hot day. And a lot of baseball. Running. Not enough water. Could’ve happened to anyone, really, anyone else. Just a very, random, thing, because it was so hot. The weather.”_

“Yeah,” Patrick says, once it seems like David’s nervous rambling has wound down. “Hey, so, for the sake of my pride, can we pretend it just never happened?”

_“I think I would be very comfortable with that.”_

“Great,” Patrick says, absolutely not awkwardly. “Uh, so, where _are_ you, right now?”

_“Well, I may have thought you were dead, and I may have panicked a little? And I ran back to your car, but I don’t know how to drive, so. Basically, I’m outside your car. So if you want to drive me back to the motel, that would be very helpful.”_

“Good to know that if I’m ever in trouble, you’ll leave me for dead,” Patrick replies, amused. “Okay, David, hang tight. We’re coming to you.” He ends the call, tossing Stevie back her phone. “He’s in the parking lot,” he informs her. And then, somewhat rhetorically: “So you’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Nope,” Stevie says, popping the P with relish. “This one’s going in the hall of fame. And the plaque shall read: ‘Patrick Brewer, too gay to function’.”

Patrick sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I guess I could do worse than Mean Girls.”

*

Patrick begs off lunch outings for a little while to lick his wounds – this town is _small_ , and even if he and David agreed to never speak of the Fainting Incident again, the rest of Schitt’s Creek made no such promises. At least, hidden away in his office, a true bastion of courage, Patrick only gets a medium roasting from Ray. David bravely soldiers through these trying times, but his spirits seem kind of low – Patrick can tell he’s spoiled for packed lunches after getting the taste of the high life out at paying establishments – so after about a week Patrick caves, and takes them out to the Café Tropical.

“A big welcome back to our _favourite_ customers,” their waitress says, as they slide into their usual booth. Patrick glances up, expecting Twyla, and does a double-take when Alexis is standing there instead, bright and perky in a Café Tropical apron. “Technically _I’m_ meant to show you to your seats, but you know what? You can take this booth. No need to thank me it’s like, totally my pleasure.”

“Alexis,” Patrick says, surprised, “You’re working here now. So that’s new.”

“Yup!” Alexis says brightly, pouring them both coffees with only minimal spillage. “Just doing a fun little jobby to pass the time, hanging out with my best girl Twy.” She waves over at Twyla, who, judging by the number of plates she’s balancing in her arms, isn’t benefitting overmuch from putting Alexis on the staff roster.

“Well, are you going to read us the specials?” David asks, after a moment.

“David, the menu is right there,” Alexis points out. “Literally _all_ you do all day at your job is read words off of paper. I’m just saying, I thought you’d be better at this.”

David shoots Patrick a deeply unimpressed look, like _can you believe this,_ and Patrick gives him an eyebrow raise in return, a smile pinching the edge of his lips. “Okay, but the specials aren’t _on the menu_ ,” David retorts. “That’s why they’re called specials.”

“David, if you don’t want to order something, I’ll have to ask you to leave,” Alexis informs him gravely. “This is a place of business, we can’t just let randoms sit in here the whole day.”

David performs a series of complex hand movements before sighing, muttering _give me a minute_ and shifting up in his seat, squinting out over Alexis’ shoulder to the specials board on the far wall. Patrick has the idle thought, as he usually does when presented with the long line of David’s neck, of leaning over the table and putting his mouth to it. Specifically, along and under that very nice jawline.

“Okay, Patrick, what can I get for you,” Alexis asks, punctuating it with a couple of taps to his hand, and he flicks his gaze back to her as she puts her hand to her mouth, suddenly looking very amused.

“ _Alexis,”_ David grinds out before Patrick can say anything, pure murder on his face before he catches Patrick looking, and hastily rearranges it.

“What?” she says, innocently. “Don’t you want to know what Patrick _wants_ , David?” She presses a finger to David’s hand, pinning it to the table. David, in the middle of taking a calming pull of his coffee with the other, abruptly chokes, half the cup ending up on the table.

Patrick immediately grabs the stack of napkins to his left and gets to work mopping up the worst of it. “Are you okay?” he asks David, concerned. David just stares at him, eyes wide, colour high on his cheeks. Patrick feels like he’s missing something, here. “Uh, is there something on my face?”

“Hmm, no, but there is something on your neck,” Alexis says, tapping at the edge of her jawline.

“You know what, Alexis, I think we’ve had quite enough of your _assistance_ today, thank you,” David snaps, still a bit hoarse from his little misadventure with the coffee, as Patrick frowns, rubbing at his jaw.

“Yeah, let’s just get the mozzarella sticks,” Patrick says, figuring that’s got to be easy enough to wrangle. “Sound good?”

“Sure,” David mutters, as Alexis returns to the kitchen. When Patrick turns back to him, he’s already got his head in his hands. “Maybe, by some miracle, some actually make it to the table. Or, we die of starvation here in this booth. It could probably go either way.”

“David,” Patrick says seriously, as David peeks up through his fingers, “I promise not to eat you first.”

“Very reassuring,” David replies. “Thank you.”

*

Stevie, of course, finds the incident deeply amusing when Patrick tells her the story the next day. They’ve taken to breakfasting together most mornings, usually at the café, but the sun is warm and bright and the small park adjacent to Ray’s offices doesn’t have an Alexis snooping around, so they’re splitting a box of cinnamon buns on a bench between them and gossiping about their favorite topic – the Roses.

“I think I might actually have something better,” she says, licking sugar crumbs off her fingers. Patrick raises an eyebrow, tearing a piece off his bun. “Remember how we were thinking faeries for a while? Because of like, magic earthquake powers, cursed to stay in this town forever thing—”

“Johnny making that ring of salt around reception last week, you said,” Patrick adds.

“He said that was an accident, but who knows,” Stevie says, shrugging. “Either way, I’m back in camp aliens.”

Interesting development, there. “Go on.”

“I found a _book,_ ” she says, significantly. “I was changing the sheets yesterday, and it kind of fell out from under David’s mattress. It’s written in the same weird symbols that all those financial documents are, but it had a ton of pictures so I could pretty much figure out what each section is about. Patrick, I think it’s literally an instruction guide on how to be human.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick says, delighted. “That makes almost too much sense. What kind of stuff was in there?”

“The first chapters seemed to be eating, sleeping, basic hygiene – I didn’t get far, I had to hide it again because Mr. Rose came back in.”

“Huh,” Patrick says, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Wonder if they had a section on—ah, never mind.” He clears his throat, and reaches for the last cinnamon bun.

Stevie snatches it away, her mouth twisting into a smirk. “What? Are you asking if there was a chapter on sex ed?”

“Your words,” Patrick says, feeling his ears going a little pink.

“Well, as I said, I didn’t get far,” Stevie says knowingly, biting into the bun. “I’ll see what I can do when I get back.”

*

What the book gets Patrick thinking about doesn’t end up being whether or not David’s been reading up about human sexual mechanics – and it might be something he’ll have to find out through actual experience (if he can ever muster the courage to take another shot at David without making an idiot of himself), because Stevie texts him a few hours later to say ** _being human for dummies is gone :(_** so that’s the end of that – he starts thinking more on the concept of being human, versus the concept of being… an alien, space faerie, demigod, supernatural entity, of being the _Roses._ Because, up until now, as much as he and Stevie have discussed between them what they _are_ , he’s never really dug into what that actually _means_ when they go about their day. For example, Patrick cries at videos of cats being rescued from storm sewers, and Moira Rose had an emotional outburst that levelled a building.

But he has very little on Alexis – aside from possibly being able to commune with animals, and whatever she did to make David choke on his coffee yesterday, maybe – and even less on Johnny, who, at this point, is a complete mystery. All Stevie’s said about him, from all their time spent together fixing up the motel, is that he exclusively wears nice suits and only takes off his gloves when he’s doing repairs, which just seems very impractical. Which, of course, leads to David – the Rose _he_ spends the most time with, but who locks himself very firmly behind a cool veneer, holding his own cards close to his chest. But maybe, if he looks close enough, Patrick might be able to pull an ace out of one of the sleeves of his very expensive sweaters.

And so it starts on a Tuesday. David is late – later than usual, at least – and Patrick’s just taking the time to finish up some loose ends with a few other clients on file when **(1)** Stevie calls him, sounding particularly harried. _“Patrick, I need you to get soup. Can you please bring me some soup to the motel._ ” A pause. _“If you’re not busy.”_

“Well, my working hours are nine to five,” Patrick replies, dryly. “But, you know, I think there’s actually a clause in my contract that stipulates I must drop everything In Case Of Soup.”

_“Okay, first, you work for yourself, so setting those hours sounds like a you problem. Second, I need chicken soup. I think the general store sells them in kegs.”_

Patrick makes a face. _Kegs_ of soup. That place is where sustainable, consumer-driven business goes to die. “Anything else?”

_“Uh, tissues, those Ukrainian throat lozenges too, if they’re still legal.”_

“Jesus, those things? Really?” Patrick mutters, wedging his phone against his shoulder as he locks up the office. “From what I recall, they made my throat less scratchy, but they then gave me hives, so really they just _transferred_ the scratchiness to a different area of my body. Are you feeling sick? It must be pretty dire, if you’re this desperate.”

 _“I’ll take what I can get_. _And no, I’m fine, for now, it’s just—uh, it’s—_ ” There’s some muffled voices in the background. _“Yes, just give me a—sorry, Patrick, I have to go. Bring the soup.”_

Patrick rocks up to the semi-construction site that serves as the motel these days, keg of soup responsibly strapped in to the passenger seat, and texts Stevie to say he’s outside. When Stevie emerges, it’s from Moira and Johnny’s room, and Patrick feels a bundle of nerves start to percolate in his gut.

“The Roses are sick?” he asks, and Stevie nods tightly, confirming it. “How are you feeling, then? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stevie says, shortly. “I’m, well—I’m not sick. I’m just—” and she takes a deep breath, gripping at the edge of the car, “You remember _War of the Worlds?_ In the end, Tom Cruise didn’t even have to do anything, because all the aliens died from getting a cold. Patrick, I can’t build this motel back on my own, okay? Not to mention that, even if I do, no one would ever stay here again when they found out that—”

“Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay,” Patrick says, clasping her shoulder. “Look, I’ve got the soup right here. We’ll do a kegstand and drown the virus in chicken-y goodness.”

But when Patrick and Stevie get into the room, Moira and Johnny don’t seem to be sick at all. Patrick, confused, looks to Stevie, who stares at the Roses like she’s just been hit over the head with Patrick’s soup keg.

“I just left,” Stevie says, disbelievingly, “For a minute, I went outside, and all of you were—”

“—Doing much better, thank you, Stevie,” Johnny Rose interjects.

“Tragically, David’s condition appears to have worsened,” Moira says. “I believe he will need to be, ah, what’s the term, John?”

“Quarantined,” Johnny supplies. “Ah, Patrick, I see you’ve brought the car up. Thank you for your generosity to our family, once again.”

“Yes, dear, we really appreciate you volunteering your home so David can begin traversing the road to recovery, without plunging the rest of us into pestilence,” Moira adds.

“I, uh,” Patrick says, looking between them, and to Stevie, flummoxed yet again by whatever is happening now. “I bought soup? But I guess you don’t… need it.”

“I was gone for a _minute_ ,” Stevie tries, again.

“Ooh, yum!” Alexis chimes in, popping out of the bathroom. She, also, looks fresh as ever, not one trace of malaise on her perfect skin. “That is so sweet, Patrick, what a yummy little treat for surviving our near death experience. Maybe I’ll save a little bit for David to have once he’s less icky. He’s in the other room – Stevie, maybe you can help Patrick carry David to the car?”

“Okay?” Stevie says, looking to Patrick, who, at this point, can’t really provide anything more constructive than a shrug. “Okay,” she repeats, and then, under her breath to Patrick, “I guess this is just happening, now.”

“I guess so,” Patrick agrees, placing the keg of soup on the floor and opening the adjoining door. The room is dark, shadows oozed across the floor, the air almost seeming close and tight, like Patrick himself is the one with his throat closing off. “David?” he manages, at the lump curled up on the far bed.

“Mhmmmph,” David acknowledges miserably, curling up tighter.

“Okay, let’s—let’s get you up, then,” Patrick mutters, gesturing to Stevie to try and help him uncurl David from his defensive fetal state. “I’m guessing you’re not going to be coming to work today.”

“Pushed it out’ve all’ve ‘em,” David mutters, nonsensically. “Now ‘s all in me. All in me. Couldn’t get it out’ve me.”

“That’s great, David,” Patrick says, humouring him. He finally manages to get David on his feet and leaning heavily on Patrick, Stevie ducking to the other side to equalize the weight. “Come on. Apparently, you’re going to be staying with me for a little while.”

“I swear, they were all like this, right up until you texted me to come outside,” Stevie hisses across David’s half-conscious form, as they half-carry, half-drag him to Patrick’s car. “One of them must have, you know. _Done_ something.”

Patrick looks sidelong at David. “I think I know which one,” he says, softly.

David sleeps fitfully for the car ride back to Patrick’s, and barely wakes up as Patrick heaves him bodily up the stairs, half-wishing his roommate-cum-landlord Darryl, Heather’s farmhand who probably bench-press a tractor, was home to help him out, and half thankful he isn’t – Darryl is like the anti-Ray: very enthusiastically respectful of Patrick’s privacy, but not so much his personal space. The man is the cuddliest person Patrick has met, and ever hopes to meet, in his _life –_ and David, if confronted with that given his seeming aversion to touch, might just decide to die on the spot.

He practically rolls David onto his mattress before pulling off his shoes and getting him properly set up against the pillows. _This isn’t exactly how I’d imagined getting you in my bed,_ Patrick thinks ruefully. He shoots off a quick text to Darryl to let him know he’s going to have a houseguest for the next few days, and that Patrick’ll be taking the couch downstairs, and then presses a hand to David’s forehead, trying to gauge the temperature. His skin is feverishly hot, sure, but also weirdly… tingly? Almost like— David’s eyes flutter open, and he makes a weak attempt to bat Patrick’s hands away. “Shouldn’t be doin’ th’t,” he mutters. “Dad said ‘m not allowed.”

Patrick thought it would be impossible for David to be ugly, and yet, here he is, disheveled and leaking from various parts of his face: half man, half supernatural being, mostly snot, an entirely glorious trainwreck of a person. “It’s alright,” Patrick says gently, “My immune system’s fighting fit, it can take a few hits.”

“Dunno what that is,” David mumbles.

“Neither does your body, apparently,” Patrick replies. He tucks David in, nice and snug. “Here. Get some rest.”

Once David has properly convalesced, or, at least, gotten too stir-crazy to maintain his bedrest, Patrick drives him back to the motel. David, upon unpacking the few articles Patrick had, on request, brought up to his place so that he could then be as fashionably snotty as his heart desired, decides he’s going to reorganize his sweater collection (Patrick _still_ hasn’t cracked the mystery of where they came from, aside from a vague assertion from David that they _had them delivered_ ). David’s frowning down at a particularly nice cashmere piece, examining a hole that seems to have formed in it, which subsequently leads to **(2)** the Incident, a.k.a. David Discovers Moths, Hates Them Immediately: a moth flutters out of the sweater pile, disturbed by David’s ministrations, and David _jumps_ backwards with a startled yell, like one of those cats spooked by cucumbers in the videos Stevie showed him, and it’s like the whole _room_ raises its hackles, electricity prickling against Patrick’s skin.

“What the _fuck_ is that, and _what_ is it doing in my sweater,” David says, strangled.

“That appears to be a moth,” Patrick replies, watching the moth flutter away into the room, rubbing at his arm. The heavy static in the air is kind of itchy. He turns back to address David. “And if I had to guess, I’d say you disturbed its evening meal.”

“ _Augh_ ,” is David’s impassioned response, “That is _disgusting—_ ” and there’s a flash out of the corner of Patrick’s eye – but when he turns around, there’s nothing there. “I can’t— _NO,_ ” David continues, and this time Patrick is quick enough to see a wild-eyed David, cowering away from a second moth, fling a hand across his face, and the moth just— _bursts_ into light, bright and brilliant for one instant and then gone completely. If Patrick had blinked he’d have missed it. “Patrick, oh god, Patrick, make them go away. I don’t like them and I don’t _want_ them in my clothes.”

“Okay, let’s just... regroup outside,” Patrick mutters, trying to project an aura of calm as he takes David by the arm and pulls him out of the room and into the fresh air, so he can eject David’s wild panic fizzing like orange soda in his lungs, and _breathe_ again. “What you need,” he says, gripping David’s shoulders to keep him steady, “Is moth balls – you can get those from the general store – they’ll get rid of the moths. And you’ll need a cedar chest to store all your clothes in to keep them from coming back—” and he almost makes a face, realizing _who_ he’s going to have to get that chest from, and resigning himself to it: “I can take care of that. I know a guy.”

The next day, feeling ‘too fragile for work, wouldn’t want to tempt fate’ but ‘in need of some fresh air’, per his own assessment, **(3)** David accompanies Patrick to see Ronnie, who he’s been trying to sweet-talk into giving Heather a deal on the fixtures for the barn renovation at her goat farm so they can fit into their budget. Unfortunately, Ronnie hates him (there was a whole thing with a bathroom) and Patrick figures that, hey, since it’s going to be an uphill battle either way (and, realistically, he hasn’t got a shot in hell at getting that deal), why not bring a wildcard along and see what he can add to the mix.

The meeting goes the same way his last two with her went. Patrick makes his pitch, goes through his meticulously prepared budget outline, demonstrates how expanding Heather’s business is a net positive benefit to the community – and Ronnie raises a single eyebrow, and shuts him down.

The difference, this time, is that David is here. Patrick’s disappointed, frustrated, sure, but he isn’t really upset by being rolled over – at this point, third time’s the charm – he’s more interested in seeing David’s take on it. To the point that he’s only half-listening to Ronnie, focused on David in his peripherals.

“And what about you, newbie?” Ronnie asks, addressing David. “What are you bringing to the table here? You got anything to salvage what Patrick’s dragged in?”

“Patrick made you a very generous offer,” David says, coolly. “I really think you should at least consider it.”

Ronnie laughs. “Kid, I don’t know how you do business where _you’re_ from, but from where I’m sitting, if a man comes to you with a fresh coat of paint on the same junk he’s been spinning for _weeks_ now just cause he thinks it’ll fool you into giving him what he wants, you call that what it is: bullshit.”

The room seems to darken, as though a cloud has passed over the sun – the walls contracting, shadows squeezing in, the air charged and heavy. Patrick shivers a little, looking to David, who is sitting very still, hands clasped tight over his crossed legs. “Aw, shit, I thought the storm wasn’t forecast until tomorrow,” Ronnie mutters, peering over at the window. “And I just put my laundry on the line. Sorry to cut this meeting short, gentlemen, but I have more important business to attend to.”

“Is she—is she referring to her _laundry?”_ David hisses at him, as Ronnie hurries out of the room. “My _god._ I don’t know how you can sit there and let her talk to you like that.”

“Practice. And a great deal of patience. I’ve gone toe-to-toe with Ronnie before, and, trust me, it doesn’t end well. Better to play the long game, with her.” Patrick takes David’s arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks for coming along. It was nice to have someone on my team. Even if we still lost.”

David’s mouth ticks up at the corner, and the air feels lighter. “Well, that’s just the endlessly kind and generous person that I am. The kind of person who deserves a very nice lunch for his troubles.”

“You strike a hard bargain,” Patrick replies, dryly, “But I think we can reach an agreement that will benefit both parties.”

“Well, as long as there’s cheese,” is David’s response.

Once David finally feels up to coming back to work, there’s a point that morning where **(4)** Patrick misplaces his rubber thimbles under a pile of paperwork, and, not wanting to lose his place, bravely forges ahead without them, flipping through pages with his fingers naked and vulnerable, when the inevitable happens.

“Ow, shit,” Patrick murmurs, shaking out his finger.

David’s at his side in an instant, peering around the table to ascertain the threat. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Nothing, I’m fine, just a papercut,” Patrick says absently, going back to the line he left off at. There’s a small spot of blood now edging the offending page that sliced open his poor pointer.

“Let me see,” David insists, and Patrick holds out his finger, scored in bright red. David examines it – squinching his eyes up, peering in close – and then hesitantly lifts it by pressing a finger to Patrick’s nail bed. The motion makes it twinge, tingling a little. “Hm. Looks fine to me,” he concludes, returning to his chair and taking out his phone.

Patrick goes to turn to the next page, and then does a double-take – the papercut is just _gone._ Not even a trace of blood remains – his sliced up finger is now whole again, as fresh as if it had never been cut in the first place. Patrick looks at his finger, and then to David, who is just casually scrolling through his phone, and then back to his finger, and figures, well, that’s another one to add to the list.

Patrick finally retrieves his thimbles after lunch, David giving him his usual derisive ribbing of their effectiveness – _they don’t help you turn the pages faster, you just look ridiculous –_ and once he’s finished helping Patrick on the latest section, David sets up shop in his usual corner with the iPad, ostensibly binging his newest obsession, _The Oprah Winfrey Show_. It starts raining in the afternoon, cocooning the office in a soft blanket of white noise, and **(5)** Patrick emerges from the fugue state of number-crunching to quickly cross-check some annotations he’s made on the paperwork, flicking through the pages deftly with the help of his trusty thimbles, _thank_ you very much. The rain keeps on its steady thrum, but the light in the room seems to increase, as if the sun is starting to break through, except – Patrick looks up to catch David watching him, a soft smile on his face, golden-cast in the warm light that’s suddenly filling the office, dust motes wheeling a scintillating symphony around him, and Patrick can’t help but let slip a kind of hushed, reverent, _what are you?_

In the space of a second, the room is back to normal. Almost as if he’d dreamed it. David cocks his head, puzzled, evidently considering the question. “Hungry,” he decides. “I mean, weird way to phrase a question. But uh, I guess because there was this segment on Oprah I just watched? Everyone got a whole Christmas turkey under their chairs, and the audience is all _so_ surprised and it’s meant to be this like, big moment of good cheer, but they can’t have been so shocked by this revelation, right? Because how could they not smell those turkeys when they were literally _right_ under their noses.”

Patrick just laughs, setting his thimbles to one side. “Let’s get dinner.”

*

Twyla has just handed them their meals at the Café Tropical when Alexis drops into their booth, crowding David against the wall, much to his very vocal disgruntlement.

“Ugh,” she says, shaking out her hair. “I have just had _such_ a day. Hi, Patrick.”

“Hey, Alexis,” Patrick replies, vaguely annoyed that she’s interrupted David’s deep dive into the sociopolitical intricacies of the Taylor Swift-Kanye West-Kim Kardashian feud, which he was actually enjoying despite having zero knowledge of the subject himself. “Aren’t you meant to be working?”

“Mm, no, I’m doing vet stuff up at Ted’s practice now,” Alexis says vaguely. “He says I’m like, _really_ good with the animals.” She reaches over to David’s plate to steal a fry. Patrick, knowing David’s reticence to share food, hides a smile in his mug of tea in anticipation of what’s sure to come.

“Don’t,” David snaps, right on schedule, batting away her advances. Something catches the light, sparkling. “You’re like one of those Thai beach monkeys, order your own—Alexis. Alexis, what is that, on your _hand_.”

“Oh, Ted gave me this nice ring,” Alexis replies, nonplussed. “Isn’t he just the sweetest thing?”

“He _proposed?_ ” David splutters. “And you _accepted?”_

“Okay, _what,_ David,” Alexis says, irritated. “It’s a pretty ring! What, was I meant to say, no, don’t give it to me? Why are you being so weird?”

David flicks his gaze quickly to Patrick, seeming almost nervous for some reason _,_ and then takes Alexis’ arm, looking her dead in the eyes. “Ted asked you to marry him,” he says meaningfully, and after a second her eyes widen, the hand not stayed by David’s grip flying to her mouth.

“Oh, my god, _that’s_ what it—” she says, and then seems to compose herself. “Like, duh, of _course_ I know what a _proposal_ is, David,” she continues, rolling her eyes conspiratorially at Patrick. “I’m just so, like, taken aback that he would like, do a proposal thing when he _knows_ we’re all leaving.”

Her last line hits Patrick like a bucket of cold water, an icy slap of a revelation he knows he’s going to feel the squelch of in his shoes for the rest of the day. Because they’re _leaving_. Not now, maybe not for a while, yet, but there’s a timer slowly counting down to the point of no return. And Patrick had forgotten. Not the fact that they’re leaving, no, because he’s literally helping them out the door – he’s forgotten that he wasn’t meant to _care_.

“Ugh, I need to go fix this,” Alexis is saying, making to leave again, and David grabs her arm before she can – “Yes David, I know, _alright,_ I’m _obviously_ not going to do that, please chill out.”

“Yeah, I should really be going too,” Patrick says, gathering up his bag. “Should get an early night. Lots to do tomorrow.”

David gives him a weird look. “But we just got here. You haven’t even touched your food.”

Patrick somehow plasters on a smile. “You have it. My treat. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

He spends the rest of the night on autopilot – driving straight home, saying maybe three words to Darryl before shutting himself in his room, flipping open his laptop, and pulling up spreadsheets. There’s safety in numbers, even if that phrase was coined with a different meaning in mind – but the problem is, now that he’s finished up with Heather, his client list has dried up. Really, he should be moving out of Darryl’s place and into somewhere in town – a thought comes into his head, unbidden, his brain automatically grabbing two problems and presenting a fix: his need for an apartment, and the memory of a conversation, _if there’s the chance of upgrading from a single bed…_

He slams the door shut on that thought, as quick as he can, but not quick enough to shut out the image of his and David’s apartment – airy, open, impeccable décor, a _very_ generous mortgage repayment scheme, David sprawled out asleep beside him as Patrick does the crossword, the morning light in burnished gold across his face—spreadsheets. Spreadsheets are safe. Except – the Rose family is the only client left on his docket. All the spreadsheets he’s just pulled, from his cloud-based active list, are Rose files: the reference doc, with the transcribed alphanumerics; the current section he’s been working on, RF 35.7; the master, listing all the sections that have been transcribed and analyzed, and the ones still to go – that column is distressingly short. His finger jerks, of its own accord, to the right-hand corner of his keyboard, and he thinks, wildly, selfishly, _I could just delete them. Say it was an accident._ But that would only buy him more borrowed time. He shuts the laptop quickly, setting it aside.

Sleeping doesn’t come easy. His thoughts are all still clammy from dinner, sloshing around in his head. He tries to pinpoint the change, to figure out what tipped the balance: workday office lunches turning into lunches on the town, to dinners on the town, to weekend dinners, to just spending all of their time together – no, maybe not a single moment. A slow, inexorable descent into madness. When did he stop chasing David, and let himself get caught? When did the English cottage in his dreams become a home?

_*_

Patrick spends a good fifteen minutes the next morning lying in bed, staring at his ceiling, feeling a vague sense of déjà vu over the churning of his gut.

He and Stevie have breakfast plans. So that’s what he’s going to do. Not hide in his bedroom, like someone teetering precariously on the edge of a breakdown, no – he’s going to go to breakfast, because he’s a take charge guy and he’s going to take charge of the situation and work the problem and everything is going to be _fine_.

In the end, he only holds out until about a third into his waffle. “I like David, Stevie.”

“Uh, yeah,” Stevie replies, slowly. “I do too.”

“No, I _like_ him. Like, _really_ like him.” His voice cracks slightly on the last part.

“Oh,” Stevie says quietly, the gears clicking into place. “Oh, Patrick.”

“I know,” Patrick groans, pressing his face into his hands. “And I don’t know what to do about it, so please just, get on with it, say ‘I told you so’ so it can distract me from just, crawling under the table to wallow.”

“But see, it’s just not as fun when you’re miserable,” Stevie replies. “Which is really very selfish of you, to make my moral victory all about you.” She pauses, twirling a piece of waffle around her fork. “This is probably a sign that you should finally tell him how you feel.”

“No, absolutely not,” Patrick argues. “They’re leaving. That’s the endgame, here. The logical course of action would be to set boundaries, get some distance from the situation. Which I should’ve done in the first place, since we started working together, _god_ , I never should have—”

“Patrick,” Stevie cuts in. “Yes, that’s a great and practical five-point plan. But you came to me because there’s a part of you that wants me to tell you to get over yourself, and kiss the boy. So that’s what I’m telling you.”

“That was the original plan,” Patrick says. “Back when that’s all I wanted to do. Not now, when I want so much more than that, when it’s not something he can _give_.”

Stevie takes a deep breath and sets her fork down on her plate, fixing him with a very flat stare. “Have you ever considered, for one second, that Mr. Rose is _wrong_ about all of this?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re assuming there’s something to be found,” Stevie says. “That there’s an answer somewhere in all those boxes that’s the key to solving everything. But what if there isn’t? What if you get to the end of all of those files and there’s nothing there? That, for better or worse, the Roses have to stay in Schitt’s Creek?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick says. “I can’t turn a blind eye, just because I’m emotionally invested in a negative outcome.”

“Then don’t,” she urges. “Maybe you can’t have it both ways, but maybe you _can_. And I know you, Patrick. If you don’t try, you’ll regret it forever.”

“I need to—I need to think,” Patrick mutters. “Thank you, for the talk.”

“Thanks for buying breakfast,” Stevie replies, with a raised eyebrow and an outstretched palm, and he sighs, fishing out a twenty to press into it – she squeezes his hand, just for a moment, and, if nothing else, it helps him feel a little lighter.

*

The forested hills astride Schitt’s Creek were always the place Patrick goes to when he needs to work through something. Stevie, upon learning where he would frequently disappear off to during the brief, fraught period of their lives that they refer to as The Jake Thing, called them his ‘panic hikes’. She’s not wrong – that element of panic really helps drive him up the hill, but once he hits the lookout and he can breathe again, it’s ultimately the one place he can go without distractions. No cellphone service, no nosy colleagues – just the open sky reminding him that, in the scheme of the universe, his personal problems are infinitesimally small.

Patrick hadn’t necessarily intended to go on a ‘panic hike’ today – his reflection in the window of his car, parked at the beginning of his usual route, telling him _hey, have fun hiking in a button down shirt and dress shoes, genius_ , is certainly a testament to that – but the ‘panic’ part of the hike really forced his hand, here. He’d first gone to the office, knowing David wouldn’t be in until at least ten, which was both a blessing and a curse – on the one hand, giving him more time to prepare what it is he wants to say, but on the other hand, helping him realize that he doesn’t _know_ what he’s going to say, but that if he tries to wing this he’s going to crash and burn into a labyrinthine thicket of his own anxiety, _oh god_ , and thus leading him to hastily write David a note that he leaves on his chair and courageously running away to the woods, now spread dense and green around him.

Even though mid-morning is marching steadily towards noon, it’s still cool and dim along the trail, mostly thanks to the overcast sky, streaked in dark lines of grey - a good fit for his mood. Patrick wonders vaguely if it will rain – summers in Schitt’s Creek seem to stretch out forever, but even so, this summer has felt exceptionally long. It reminds him of being a kid, of endless summers spent playing baseball with all his cousins, watermelon pops and grass stains on all of his clothes – like time had paused at his lemonade stand to take a cool drink and relax, for a moment, before marching steadily on. Patrick wishes that he could chase time down, now, beg it to stay awhile, have another drink – keep the leaves from changing, stem the flow of days to months to years, keep David right where Patrick desperately wishes he belongs.

The air starts feeling warmer. At first, Patrick figures it’s just the exertion of the climb, but then the deep shadows around him start fading, patches of almost-light appearing in the clearings, the kind that indicate the clouds above him are maybe beginning to thin. Then, as he crests a rise, the sun suddenly breaks through, bringing new life to the woods around him – light pooling warm and mellow against the earth, glinting down the silk of spiderwebs, green leaves becoming rich and polished, bright sparks drifting in the air in a way that seems vaguely familiar – and, as he steps out of the tree cover, his phone starts to buzz in his pocket.

He frowns, fishing it out, thinking – vaguely – _maybe I set an alarm_ – and then stops dead in his tracks when he sees that, no – his phone, somehow at full bars, is receiving a call from a very familiar caller ID. His thumb swipes to answer on reflex before he can stop himself.

 _“Patrick?”_ comes David’s voice, high and abrupt, as though he didn’t expect Patrick to take the call. _“I mean, um. Hi. How are, um, how is everything? Because you’re not at work, and you’re always at work, so I just thought I’d um, check in. Make sure everything’s okay. Because you are okay, right? We’re okay. That is to say, I mean, I’m okay, and you’re okay. Um. Okay.” _A beat. _“Patrick? Are you there?”_

Just hearing David’s voice, his beautiful, ridiculous rambling – it’s like it clears the doubt out of Patrick’s head, the way the sun burned through the clouds above it. It’s really just that easy. “I left you a note,” Patrick says, smiling helplessly out towards the horizon. “Which means you didn’t actually come into work this morning. David, just because I’m out of the office doesn’t mean you get to slack off.”

There’s a long pause. _“Oh, you mean that note. The one on the, um—”_

“Your chair,” Patrick supplies.

_“Yes, I was going to say, that note. Which I read. I guess I’m just very busy, with all the work, so just to refresh my memory, are you—I mean, when are you coming back?”_

“I’ll meet you at the motel later this afternoon,” Patrick replies. “There’s something I want to talk about with you, if that’s alright.”

_“Well, I’m very busy, at work, but I think I can make some time.”_

“Keep up the good work, David,” Patrick says. “I’ll see you soon.”

 _“See you soon, Patrick,”_ David replies, softly, and the line goes dead.

Patrick slowly lowers his phone back into his hands and takes a second to centre himself, preparing for the trek back down, when he notices that his phone has no reception once again. He frowns down at it for a second, and then breaks into a grin as he realizes – _David turned himself into a cell tower. For me._ The absurdity of that thought, the fact that this is his _life_ , now, that he’s just been on a panic hike to deal with the fact that he’s fallen for an extremely handsome supernatural being that can apparently _magically juice up his 4G_ bubbles up in his chest and he starts to laugh, one hand pressed to his face, the tension inside him unravelling, spooling out into the sunny clearing. When he catches his breath, he _also_ notices that David’s meddling has meant that his voicemail inbox has been updated. With a _lot_ of missed calls from David.

As he starts the return journey, he queues up the first message, fishing out his headphones and plugging them into his phone. Then he hits play.

*

Patrick barely gets his knuckles to the door of David and Alexis’ room before it swings open, revealing Stevie as she bodily drags Alexis out of the room, much to her flailing and repeated protests. “Oh, hi, Patrick,” Alexis says, brightly, “See, Stevie, I _told_ you he wasn’t going to—”

“You are going to be my on-call accountant for _life_ ,” Stevie tells Patrick, cutting her off. “Now, get in there, and don’t screw it up. Okay?”

“Thank you, Stevie,” Patrick says gratefully, biting into his cheek to hide his grin as Stevie firmly escorts Alexis, who keeps twisting to try and look back at Patrick, over to the reception area. He then takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and steps into the room.

“Hi,” David says, quietly, standing alone in the middle of it. “I was, um. I was looking for you.”

Patrick smiles, slow. “Well, you found me.”

“I guess I did,” David says, giving him a crooked twitch of his mouth in return. “It was a bit hard to get ahold of you, actually, so I may have, um. Left a few messages on your phone. You can just go ahead and delete all of those.”

“Oh, no, it’s far too late for that,” Patrick replies, gravely. “No, I listened to them all. Even the one that’s fifteen minutes long, because you forgot to hang up, and I got to learn about all the things Alexis has been doing with Mutt, and Ted, and _Twyla_ , which I think was meant to be relationship advice. That one went over great with the boys at the gas station.” Off David’s mortified face, he caves, and says, “I’m just kidding, I only played them for myself. And whatever CSE agent is listening in.”

“Okay, well, I don’t know what that is,” David replies, but his mouth tips up into a full smile, anyway, and it doesn’t matter that Patrick’s clothes are all sweaty and wrinkled from his hike, David’s seen him worse, and he’s still here – because this doesn’t have to be perfect, but it has to be _now_.

“So, listen—” Patrick begins.

“No, you listen,” David cuts in, “Sorry, that came off way harsher than I anticipated, but. Here’s the thing: I like you. And I don’t like _anyone_. It’s very unsettling, and honestly I’m not a fan, but I can’t seem to do anything about it, so, here we are.”

“Sorry to be an inconvenience,” Patrick replies, not sorry at all.

David spins on the spot, arms fluttering to his sides and out, fists gripped tight, performing his own one-man dance of emotional distress. “It’s just that, I have been, _so good,_ ” he continues, with a whine, “And for what? I don’t want to sit around and wait for something to happen that, let’s be honest, probably isn’t going to happen. You know it, I know it, and if Dad can’t see it yet, well, that’s on him, but if I’m forced to live out my life in this town, I want to _live_ it. _”_ He takes a quick pause for breath, looking half like he wants to reel some of those words back into his mouth, and half setting his jaw mulishly against it, defiantly sticking to his guns. “So.”

“‘So’?” Patrick prompts, stepping forwards into David’s space, resting his hands lightly at his hips. “Is there something you’d like to ask me, David?”

“Oh my god,” David says, pressing his hands to his face, briefly, and then, “Patrick, do you want to—can we just—I don’t know, okay, you do it.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, laughter bubbling up in his chest, “David, can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” David breathes, “Yes, I would—I would like that.”

Patrick does not need to be asked twice, he does not even need to be asked _once_ – bracing his hands on David’s hips, he steps up onto his toes, nudging across David’s nose and finally, _finally_ , dropping into the kiss. And it’s like literal, physical sparks fly – there’s electricity under his lips, David’s whole body a live wire wrapped around him, pulling him close and warm and _alive_ —

“Oh!” comes a voice from behind him, and Patrick reluctantly pulls away from the best kiss of his goddamn life to see Johnny Rose, frozen at the doorframe to their adjoining room.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” David says. Patrick pulls both of his hands off of David’s ass as though they’ve been burned. He has to then put his foot down, hard, against the urge to touch his still-tingling lips.

“Oh, no, don’t you boys stop on my account,” Johnny says, looking like that’s exactly the opposite of what he’d like them to do. “I was just looking for Stevie. But she’s clearly not here, so I’ll just, let you two get back to your business. I’ll just be right through this door, if you need me—”

“What are you fussing about, John, are you—oh, hello,” Moira says, poking her head in too. Patrick could probably die, here, right on this stained patch of carpet. “David, you’re looking a little flushed, dear. Don’t tell me you’ve contracted another bout of the ‘cold’.”

“We were just, uh,” David says, flustered, “Patrick was just—”

“Leaving,” Patrick finishes. “I just dropped David back off from work, and now I’ve got to get home, you know, beat the evening rush. Good to see you, Mr. and Mrs. Rose.” He pulls David aside as they get to the door, pitching his voice low, just for them – “We can talk tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“I’d like,” David replies, with a soft smile. “That. To talk.”

Patrick drives home on cloud-fucking-nine. He can’t stop grinning, just – pressing his face into the steering wheel at a stop sign, laughing high and breathless, _David kissed me, David wants me, David-David-David,_ a mantra humming alongside the engine, an absolute earworm for the ages. He pulls into the driveway, fumbling with the keys, thanking whatever gods that are smiling down on him today that Darryl’s out on the town tonight because he might not have been able to stop himself from giving him a bearhug out of sheer joy, which he would _definitely_ never hear the end of.

Patrick throws himself down on his bed, looking to the ceiling, at the golden patterns of light playing across it, the same ceiling he stared at this morning in grim despair feeling like a distant memory. God, he wants to—he wants to climb out of his window, take his acoustic guitar to the rooftop, sing out love songs to Heather’s goats. Which is crazy. But he’s dating an alien, now, so pretty much anything else pales in comparison. “Patrick, you need to shower,” he tells the ceiling, firmly. “Shower, first. And then the rooftop.”

Except, when he gets out of the shower, pulling on a plain tee and a soft pair of sweatpants, there’s a steady knock at the door. _Maybe Darryl forgot his keys,_ he thinks, frowning, as he heads down the stairs to open it – and breaks into a smile, _again_ , at who he sees on the other side.

“Hi,” David says, hesitantly, “I know we said tomorrow, but my family is _extremely_ nosy, and I’ve had a very trying day, and I just thought, if it would be alright with you—”

 _“Yes,”_ Patrick says, immediately – David is carrying a night bag, straps twisting between his fingers, and Patrick’s heart leaps into doubletime, Steve Carrell’s voice screaming in the back of his head, _oh my god, okay, it’s happening, everybody stay calm –_  and then clears his throat, “I, of course, come in.” The logical side of his brain, now reduced to a tiny fraction of his active thought process, gives him a little insistent tap on his shoulder, and he squints out at the road behind David. “How—how did you get here?” he asks, for one wild moment wondering if David just… _teleported_ to his doorstep.

“Oh, uh, I convinced Stevie to drop me off,” David replies. “And she now has unlimited access to my closet.”

“A high price to pay,” Patrick murmurs, dropping his gaze to David’s lips.

David drops his bag to the floor. “Worth it.”

*

The problem with kissing David is that once he’s started, it’s hard to stop. They make it up the stairs, to Patrick’s room, though Patrick has no idea how – David’s skin is like liquid sunlight, and Patrick can’t get enough of the taste, it’s like he’s _drunk_ on it. He presses forward, bracing his hands on David’s hips and mouthing deep into the crook of his neck, then inching higher, an electric slide – nipping under the edge of his jawline as David drops his head back to allow him access, throat moving beneath Patrick’s lips, producing all sorts of delicious sounds—

“Okay, wait,” David gasps, high and breathy, “Wait, wait, hold on,” and Patrick disengages immediately, stepping back to give David some space, trying to catch his breath – David, flushed and thoroughly debauched, really isn’t helping with that.

“Um,” Patrick says, telling himself _very_ firmly not to jump to any conclusions. “Are you okay? Is this not… okay?”

“ _Yes_ ,” David says, very quickly, “Yes, yes, oh god, it’s very okay, it’s really _too_ okay, if I’m honest, and that’s the um, that’s the problem.”

“Okay,” Patrick repeats, slowly.

David screws up his face, gripping his fists tight, and makes some kind of very conflicted noise. “It’s just,” he blurts out, “I _promised_ my dad that I wouldn’t tell anyone, and it’s not fair, because it’s… it’s _you_ , and the way I _feel_ when I’m around you, I _—_ ” he gesticulates at Patrick helplessly, “—even if I wanted to keep this from you I don’t think I, like, _physically_ can any longer.” He sits heavily down on Patrick’s mattress, burying his head in his hands.

“It’s up to you, David,” Patrick says gently, beginning to have an inkling of where this is going. He takes a seat next to him, placing his hand by David’s knee – not touching, but giving him the option if he wants to take it. “Whatever you decide, we can work through it. Okay?”

“Can you stop being so _thoughtful_ and _nice_ for one second,” David says, muffled through his hands.

“Sorry, no can do,” Patrick replies fondly. “It’s a condition. Incurable, even. If you want to be with me, you’re just going to have to learn to deal with it.”

David lets out a slow breath, and then pulls his hands off his face. His eyes flick to Patrick’s hand, pressed to the mattress between them – he hesitates, and then places his hand over it. Patrick can feel it, almost immediately – the tingle against his skin, bright and electric, the _whatever_ thrumming through David’s veins straining to be let free. David is watching him carefully, and Patrick meets his gaze, steady and unwavering, and waits.

“Well, I guess that’s a good segue as any, so, I’m just going to—I’m just going to say it,” David mutters. “I’m not, um. I’m not. Human. Like, yes, okay, I _look_ human—” and, here, he gestures across his body with his other arm, “—but this isn’t really my body. Well, it _is_ , technically I designed it myself, but, that’s just because I can’t use my actual body here, I think I might explode. Or something. I’m a little hazy on the details? I think my dad could explain it better. Alexis definitely could.” He pauses, frowning. “Oh, and I’m not from Earth,” he adds, belatedly. “If that wasn’t also clear. So.”

“I know,” Patrick says, simply.

David frowns, as though caught off-guard. “You… know,” he says, flatly.

“None of you are as subtle as you think,” Patrick continues, giving him a wry grin. “Your whole family seemingly fell out of the sky during a one-in-a-million solar event with enough filing boxes to fill a swimming pool, all of which conveniently managed to fit into my Hyundai Sonata. And that was just within the first five minutes of meeting you.”

“Ah,” David says, eloquently. “So, does… everyone know, then?”

Patrick flips his hand over, giving David’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Stevie, definitely. Everyone else I couldn’t say for certain, but if Twyla knows, half the town is related to her, so they probably know too.”

“Right. Okay,” David says, mulling it over. “Well, this was… more anticlimactic than I envisioned it.”

“It’s like you said,” Patrick murmurs, leaning in close, testing the waters. David doesn’t shy away, eyes flicking to his lips, so Patrick continues, softer still, “Christmas turkeys – _right_ —” a kiss to one cheek, “— _under_ —” and to the other, David swaying into it, “— _our_ —” he switches back to the first cheek, the barest brush of his lips, thrilling at the small, frustrated noise David makes, “— _noses,_ ” he finishes, and finally captures his lips – soft, chaste, one bright shot of sunshine for a moment until David breaks away.

“But like, to be clear,” David blurts out. “Everyone knows, and… they’re fine with it?”

“This is Schitt’s Creek,” Patrick responds. “Where, as our very inappropriate town sign stipulates, ‘everybody fits in’. That includes you, _and_ your family. Speaking of,” he adds, “Now that this is all out in the open, I do have some questions I’ve been dying to ask. If you don’t mind.”

“Well, if you _must,_ ” David replies, casting his eyes to the ceiling, but he can’t quite hide the smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

*

So Patrick asks. Apparently, the word that describes _what_ exactly the Roses are, and the word for the place they’re from, can’t translate into English – that is to say David just drops something musical and deeply thunderous, like if someone was striking a bell the size of a beluga whale, into a regular sentence and a little dust shakes itself loose from the ceiling. How their language works in this place, David explains, as they warily eye the cracked plaster above, is that anything they say translates except for words that are too far removed from any meaning here for an analogue to cut it (which also explains why, when Patrick had asked about David’s true name, he’d just said _David_ ). Once Patrick’s ears stop ringing, they agree to keep it vague for their own safety, and the sanctity of Patrick’s eardrums.

Which makes it harder when David has to try and describe his home, as they lie together, side by side on Patrick’s bed, propped up against the headboard, David’s body a bright line of warmth on his left – the sweeping, endless sky, colours that aren’t colours, oceans in the air and flowers underground, but also, banks, video stores, and taxation agencies.

“My dad… I guess you could say he builds things,” David says, later, the light from the window long faded into night. “Like, our business, back home. He can take a seed of something and help it grow. My mom, as I guess you already know, is kind of the opposite – she tends to break stuff.” He makes a face. “Okay, that sounds bad. It’s not bad, it’s kind of like – sometimes things need to be broken? Preconceptions, barriers in the way of progress, old ugly buildings – not the motel,” he adds, hurriedly, “That was entirely an accident. It is—was—a very, uh, well. Please don’t tell Stevie I said that.”

“I won’t,” Patrick promises, shooting him a wink.

“Okay, um. Alexis. Alexis, basically, communicates, so she’s _very_ effective in getting herself out of a whole variety of situations, but it’s probably also the reason she gets into them in the first place, like when she makes a mistake and manages to convince you that this guy you like has skipped town because you couldn’t, uh, admit you had feelings for him—”

“Mm, that does sound like a tricky situation,” Patrick teases. “Did you manage to set the record straight?”

“Well, not exactly _straight_ , as I understand it,” David retorts, smirking. “But, to answer your question: yes. Yes, I did. And I think it’s going to work out.”

“Well, then I’m happy for you,” Patrick replies. “And wildly, bitterly jealous. So much so that I may have to skip town myself.”

“Okay, well, I feel obligated to inform you that _that_ is very poor decision-making on your part. Anyone with a fibre of common sense would know that. But,” David continues, “If that’s what you need, then, by all means. As long as your rubber thumb-things go with you, I would consider it a noble sacrifice for the greater good.”

Patrick sighs, hanging his head forlornly. “Unfortunately, my thimbles are actually a commodity belonging to one Ray Butani’s office, so, I guess that means I have to stay put.” He flicks his gaze back up to catch David giving him a look so nakedly fond that his chest almost can’t contain it. “So, what about you?” he asks, softly, tracing a path over David’s hand, watching the play of light responding to his touch. David takes a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment, and Patrick bites into his cheek to keep from smiling – that he can have this effect on David, just with the lightest touch, feels like his own personal superpower.

“I, um,” David says, unsteadily, turning his palm over, and Patrick draws a finger over each of his lifelines. “I’m actually not sure how I can describe it. I think I… feel things? Which can be a lot, especially in this place and this—this _body_ ,” he takes a sharp breath, as Patrick leans over to kiss up his forearm, the skin warm and alive at his lips,  “When there’s— _oh_ , my god, so _much_ , all the time, it’s hard to, um, to keep it all under con-control—”

There’s a flicker behind his eyelids, and Patrick looks up to see David, flushed, take his arm back so he can bury his face in his hands, as golden motes dance in the warm light blooming around him. Patrick grins, gently removing David’s hands from his face, holding them in his own. “You’re beautiful,” Patrick says, honestly. “That’s the first thing I thought, when we met, feeling _very_ unsexy in my ‘confirmed bachelor’ pajamas.”

“They _were_ hideous,” David demurs, venturing a small smile. “You should’ve taken them off.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure your family would’ve been on the same page, there.”

David winces. “Mm, good point. But, going back to—there’s something else you need to know.” He chews at his lip, suddenly unable to meet Patrick’s eyes. “I’ve, um, I’ve never been with a human before. I mean, it’s not like I’ve never—I’ve dated like a thousand entities,” he continues hastily, before Patrick can say anything, “But not like _this_ , where the mechanics are—well, uh, anyway, I know you have a lot of experience, in that area, so I just need you to be patient with me. If that’s something you would want to do. With me.”

“Hey,” Patrick says, shifting closer, until their knees bump together. “I’ve never been with anyone who _isn’t_ human before, so – this is a first for both of us.” David smiles, crooked at the edge of his mouth, and Patrick presses forward, feeling the need to—to explain, to _show_ him— “What you can do, David, how you can look at the world and make it brighter—literally— _this,_ right now, I could watch you light up a room every day and seeing it would still feel like my first time. But, more than that, it’s just—you. All that you are. The way _you_ make _me_ feel, like—I’m right where I’m supposed to be. And anything else, we can figure out. Together.”

The lights spin around them like an infinite array of stars. David stares at him, eyes liquid and open, so Patrick leans in, chasing the light – slides his hands from forearm to elbow, across his shoulders, cupping the back of his neck... David makes a soft noise, shifting forwards to meet him as Patrick drops his eyes closed, tilting his head to bridge that final gap, and – even behind his eyelids – every last dreg of darkness is finally burned away.


	3. shine on, patrick, shine on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(Can't you see me, I'm shining - and it's you that I've been[waiting to find](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXTAn4ELEwM))_   
> 

Patrick goes straight to Stevie’s apartment first thing in the morning, armed with a jar of Heather’s experimental truffle-marinated goat’s feta as a token of his appreciation. One, because Stevie is the _best_ friend anyone could ever have, and two, because if he didn’t have a very compelling reason to force himself out of bed and away from the sight of the first brush of sunlight caressing David’s sleeping face, he would never leave his bed _again._

“Well, someone got lucky last night,” Stevie comments, a grin spreading slowly across her face as she lets him in.

Patrick ducks his head, scrubbing at the back of his neck, unable to stop the smile spilling across his own. “Well, yes, and no,” he admits, “We mostly just talked, actually. Almost the whole night, I’ve hardly gotten any sleep.”

“Really? Because you seem, like, extremely fresh,” Stevie says. “Glowing, actually.”

“Good to know.”

“No, like, Patrick,” she says, a laugh bubbling up, “You’re _literally_ glowing.”

“What?” Patrick asks, and Stevie beckons him over to her bathroom mirror. Sure enough, there’s literal _light_ softly emanating from his skin, sparkling against his cheekbones. “Oh my god,” he says, aghast. “Oh my _god,_ Stevie, I can’t go into work looking like this! Do you have any foundation?”

“Yeah, let me just go get my contour kit,” Stevie retorts, sarcastically. She taps at her chin, considering. “We could sneak into one of the Roses’ rooms at the motel, see if Alexis or Mrs. Rose have any.”

Patrick shakes his head vehemently at that suggestion. The last thing he wants to do after spending the night with David is come face to face with his family, _especially_ with the evidence of what they did last night literally written _all over his face_. “Too risky,” he replies. “There has to be another way. Shit, I don’t know how I missed it this morning…”

“Your bathroom’s pretty sunny, and mine’s basically a dungeon,” Stevie replies. “So like, maybe it’s not that obvious in the light.”

“Maybe, yeah,” he says, unconvincingly. His ridiculous, shiny-cheeked reflection shares his misgivings. God, Ronnie would probably make some crack at him like _you’ve finally gotten so pale, the sun’s trying to tan you from the inside._ Something has to be done, or he’ll never hear the end of it. “Okay. Okay, I’ll run down to the café, see if Twyla’s got any on hand.”

“Shine on, Patrick,” Stevie says, giving him a solemn salute. “Shine on.”

He dials David as soon as he’s out the door, and he’s about one tone away from voicemail when David picks up. _“Mmmm, what,”_ he says, voice low and rough from sleep and causing all sorts of warm feelings to simmer in Patrick’s belly. _“Ugh, Patrick, it’s like, barely light outside.”_

“The sun has been up for nearly three hours,” Patrick informs him, “And, even if it wasn’t, apparently I’m a pretty good substitute, David, because I am _glowing._ And that’s really not something humans tend to do, so how do I get it to stop?”

David yawns, soft and warm in Patrick’s ear. _“No idea. Sounds nice, though. Should come back to bed and show me.”_

“Tempting,” Patrick replies, and god, it _really_ is, the hot curl of David’s voice threading low and _tugging_ at him to do exactly that, “But _we_ have to go into work today, and I can’t exactly go around in public looking like a human lightbulb.”

 _“Seems like you should’ve thought of that before you left, since now I don’t have any way of getting to work this morning.”_ David yawns, again. _“A shame, really.”_

Shit. One night with David and Patrick’s brain has apparently just melted into a dumb, glowy pool somewhere around his ankles. “Well, I’m not paying you to stay in bed,” he comments, and then he nearly trips into the storm sewer as the implications of _that_ statement get him right in the kneecaps. He clears his throat, stepping back up onto the sidewalk. “I’ll come by to pick you up.”

 _“Mm, we’ll see,”_ David replies, slyly, and hangs up. Patrick just stands there for a moment, grinning like an idiot, before he realizes he’s just staring at his own reflection in the glass front of the Café Tropical. Stevie was right – the glowiness really isn’t that obvious in the light. This is fine.

Fortunately, at this hour, the café is mostly empty. Unfortunately, _Alexis_ is there, chatting to Twyla over a breakfast smoothie. “Patrick!” she calls out, before Patrick can back out of the café and make a run for it. “Well,” she says, chirpily, “I see you got what you wanted.” Her bright smile doesn’t meet her eyes, which bore into him, sharp and steady. She’s not wearing her gloves. Patrick, knowing what he now knows, feels like he’s walked into an ambush.

“Oh, wow, Patrick, your skin looks amazing today,” Twyla adds, cheerful as ever. “It’s almost like you’re glowing! You _have_ to tell me where you bought that highlighter.”

“Well, Twyla, I would be happy to,” Patrick lies, lyingly, “If you could maybe lend me some of your—”

“Twy, wasn’t there that thing in the kitchen you had to do?” Alexis interrupts, eyes still fixed on Patrick, giving Twyla’s hand a little squeeze.

“Oh!” Twyla exclaims. “Yes! Sorry, Patrick, I’ll be right back.”

“Good to see you, Alexis,” Patrick says, guardedly. “You wouldn’t happen to know how I might be able to solve my, uh, cosmetic problem, would you?”

“Isn’t this something you should’ve discussed with _David?”_ she says, coolly. And before Patrick can defend himself, she marches loudly on. “Speaking of my brother, Patrick, he likes you, okay? Like, he’s actually into you. And poor thing’s been burned so many times he’s basically just a little crispy shell, and that’s not a journey I want for him with you. So, if you’re thinking about just, like, going for a ride, that’s not going to work for me.”

Getting shovel-talked is really not how he plans to spend his morning. Especially with a few more people now wandering into the café. “Alexis, I appreciate your concern," he says, hurriedly, "But I really have to get going, so, in the interest of time—” Patrick takes his hand and places it very deliberately on her arm, feeling that familiar Rose family electric tingle under his palm. He has a brief thought of _she’s going to think I’m very weird if I’m wrong about this_ before shoving it to the side and meeting her eyes, letting all of his feelings for David flood to the forefront of his mind.

“Oh,” Alexis says, softly, and then she smiles. “Well. I guess that all seems acceptable.” She blinks, as though something has just occurred to her, and then her smile turns wicked. “Ew, Patrick. In a field? _Really?_ That does _not_ seem practical.”

Patrick snatches his hand back. “Great, uh, great talk,” he stutters, hastily making his escape. “Got to go. Bye!”

“I just don’t think he’d be into it, Patrick,” Alexis calls out after him. “There are _so_ many bugs!”

*

After months of crunching numbers and taking names like a well-oiled machine, David Rose is back to being a somewhat of a nightmare to work with. Though, for an entirely different reason, this time.

“We really should get back to work,” Patrick says, into David’s mouth.

“You said,” David murmurs, interrupting his own train of thought with another kiss, “Ray would be out for another hour, and—” pressed again, to the corner of Patrick’s mouth, “—we’re actually ahead of schedule, so.”

Patrick grabs his tea, intending to have a quick sip, and instead winces – it’s now stone cold. The fact that there’s not one iota of warmth left in his previously piping hot mug is a distressing sign of how long they’ve spent making out during business hours. His work ethic and capitalist guilt are currently gagged and bound back-to-back, their collective muffled screaming a distant buzz in the back of his mind, by the basal part of his brain that says _I think there might be a strip of David’s skin I haven’t touched yet, but I should map out his entire body just to be sure_. “I’m going to need to go warm this up,” he says, regretfully.

“Uh-uh,” David reprimands, and he plucks the mug out of Patrick’s hand. Light plays under his fingers, and, after a moment, steam begins to rise from the mug again. “There you go. One hot tea.”

“Well, I appreciate the compliment,” Patrick teases, taking back the mug, “Also, thank you for reheating my tea.” David rolls his eyes, a smile tugging helplessly at the corner of his mouth. Patrick knows the feeling. His own cheek muscles are honestly starting to cramp from the workout they’ve been getting in the last few weeks, and even if he no longer _literally_ glows, he feels like he’s so filled to bursting with happiness that it should actually be leaking out of his pores at this point. He sips at the tea again – the temperature is _perfect_ , and he closes his eyes for a moment, appreciating it. “Mm. You’re very good at this.”

“Oh, I know,” David says, smugly.

Patrick really does want to drink his tea, but his hand places his mug back on the table of its own volition as he slides back into the bracket of David’s legs. “Well, I happen to be good at a few things, too,” he murmurs, watching David’s eyes drop to his lips.

“Mm, maybe,” David says, pretending to consider it. “Maybe I can think of one or two.”

“Like what?” Patrick asks.

“Tax law,” David whispers, seductively. “Fiscal policy. Microeconomics—” Patrick laughs into the kiss, running his hands up David’s thighs – David makes an appreciative noise, biting down on Patrick’s bottom lip in a way that makes him thankful that he’s got his hands gripped on something solid, or his weak knees might send him right to the floor. Something then buzzes, right under Patrick’s right palm, and David breaks away with a disgruntled noise, patting at his jeans.

“Is that your phone in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?” Patrick deadpans.

“Yes,” David replies, and pulls out his iPhone. “Stevie. She sent it to both of us.”

Patrick usually keeps his personal phone on Do Not Disturb mode during business hours, a habit David might do well to pick up on. Pulling it out of his back pocket, he unlocks it to find Stevie has texted **_general stores closing down_** into their group chat, followed by a meme of a stick figure in a pink dress yelling BUY ALL THE THINGS. “Well, can’t say I didn’t see that coming,” Patrick says. “I’m honestly surprised they stayed afloat this long.” He shakes his head, slipping his phone back into his jeans. “ _Kegs_ of soup.”

David’s oddly quiet, staring down at his phone. Patrick rummages in his pocket, fishing out a five cent piece, and flicks it at him. It bounces off of his shoulder, and David flails, nearly falling out of the chair. “Oh my god, what was— _why_ would you do that?”

“Nickel for your thoughts,” Patrick replies, impishly. “Usually it’d be a penny, but they’re no longer minted. It’s a common saying, it means I’d like to know what you’re thinking about.”

“Okay, well, you could’ve just _asked_ , instead of pelting me with your weird, tiny coins,” David says peevishly. “Anyway, I don’t know. An idea, maybe. Probably nothing, so let’s just get back to section fifty-seven, it’s pretty dense—”

“No, come on, tell me,” Patrick insists. “What’s your idea?”

“I—it’s just, you work with a lot of small businesses around here,” David says. “And you always talk about how one of the challenges of having a rural business is getting your products into a wider market, especially if you’re too small to supply a big chain. So, I was thinking – a store that sources items from local vendors and sells them on consignment as like, a branded experience, in a one-stop-shop retail environment that benefits both the vendor and the customer.” He clears his throat. “You know, or not,” he finishes.

“David,” Patrick says, slowly, thinking it over, “That’s actually a really good idea. On paper, very sustainable, especially if you can build a strong digital presence that would expand your reach outside of the local area. I can help you draw up the paperwork, and you’ll probably need to get some more money in for the upfront costs, so I’ll get you some small business grant applications running, too.”

David looks at him, carefully. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, I’m going to get the money,” Patrick replies, confidently.

David’s mouth ticks up. “No, I mean – that this is something worth investing in.”

“It’s my job to be sure,” Patrick says, grinning. “And I’m very good at my job.”

“Oh, well, in that case,” David says, smile now at full-mast. “You really think we can do this?”

“‘We’, huh?” Patrick teases. “You want me to come onboard? Well, let’s hear your offer.”

“Business partners,” David affirms. “Sixty-forty. I’ll have creative control and take the lead on curation of the products, and you can handle the numbers side.”

Patrick _hmms_ , considering it. “Up my share to forty-five, and I’ll give you access to my client list.”

“Deal,” David says, bright and excited, and Patrick can’t help pulling him in for another kiss, thinking, if he was like David, the whole room would be aglow with his pride.

“Pleasant afternoon, boys!” Ray says cheerfully, coming in forty-five minutes ahead of schedule, because _of course_ he does. Patrick clears his throat, jumping _right_ back behind his desk. “No work without a little play, mm? You know, Patrick, this feels just like old times.”

“‘Old times’, huh,” David says thoughtfully, steadfastly ignoring Patrick’s eyes burning holes in the back of his head, “Sounds like there’s a story in there, Ray – that I, for one, would _love_ to hear.”

*

“I’ve bought every last snack item from the general store before it ceases to exist,” Stevie announces, by way of greeting, as she slides into David’s side of the booth at the Café Tropical. “Mr. Rose and I are on the last stage of rebuilding the motel, and you’re done with your quarter thing, or whatever, so – birthday weekend is a go.”

David, eyes gleaming, had come to the door when Patrick had dropped by to pick him up for work with two suitcases in tow and said _Stevie and my dad are renovating our rooms, so I’m being kicked out_ , _it’s just terrible news,_ and Patrick had gone, _mm, what a tragedy, how ever will you find a place to stay,_ and then David had added _oh yes, with the local housing market in a bubble and all of my assets being currently illiquid_ and Patrick had given him a thorough appraisal and concluded _well, not all of them –_ and then Stevie had told them very firmly to _get a room_ , which David protested that that’s precisely what he’s _trying to do, here_ , and so on. But waking up to David every morning, to his sleep-rumpled hair and morning breath and sixty-five bottles of various serums that make up his morning routine ever since he fell into a beauty influencer hole on Instagram, has actually been making him want to slow down and, for lack of a better term, smell the roses. Maybe it’s more because he can’t even go into work, now, until David’s ready to leave. But, regardless, a whole weekend of fun, of no responsibilities, with his two favourite people – Patrick can’t deny that it’s a very attractive prospect.

“We’re actually in the middle of the second quarter,” Patrick points out, just for the sake of appearances. “The fiscal year doesn’t include a summer break.”

“You always say the first quarter’s the most important,” Stevie replies. “Because of market confidence, or whatever. That’s why we skipped your actual birthday this year, ‘cause you were crazy busy.”

“Wait, we skipped your birthday?” David says, frowning. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Do you even know what a birthday is?” Stevie asks. “Do you even… have one?”

“Yes, I know what a _birthday_ is,” David says, affronted. “And while no, I don’t have one, in the human sense, I _do_ know that it’s basically unforgivable to skip someone’s birthday. We’ve all seen Sixteen Candles. So, Patrick, when was it? Within the last week? Within the last… month?”

“Ah, June,” Patrick says sheepishly, and David’s eyebrows go _right_ up, “But Stevie’s right – we were all really busy, at the time. It was around when we hit the ‘off-shore’ holdings, David.” David makes a face. ‘Off-shore’, in the context of an alien civilization, opened up a whole new dimension of litigation. Literally.

Either way, June feels like decades ago, with how much has changed in Patrick’s life since then. His parents were on a cruise on the actual day of his birthday, and sent him a very exuberant video message wishing him a very happy birthday and talking all about how their neighbours on the boat are this _lovely_ gay couple and they have colour-coordinated bathing suits and invited them to join them at Mimosa Yoga on the top deck, whatever that means, and basically just reiterating, as at every opportunity they can since he came out, that they are _very_ supportive and proud of him. And now Patrick wonders what they’d think of him dating a magical space alien, and his heart ticks up at the thought of introducing David to his _parents_ , to having them—

“Um, anyway,” Patrick says, realizing that he just kind of blanked out for a second and needing to fill in that space, “Birthday weekend. This weekend, sounds great. What do you have in mind?”

“Well, Patrick, if you were _listening_ , I said I bought _every snack in the general store_ ,” Stevie says, significantly, and then Patrick understands.

 _“Oh,”_ Patrick says, grinning slowly. “So, that’s day one, then.”

“Day two,” Stevie corrects. “And you’re driving. Day one will be my gift to you.”

“Okay, _what_ is going on,” David says, irritably, looking between the two of them. “Can at least one of you stop acting all mysterious and be more forthcoming with the itinerary, here?”

Patrick looks to Stevie, her eyes already sparkling in anticipation. “I think you’re going to really enjoy this weekend, David.”

*

“You said I would enjoy this,” David says, stiffly, on Day One, “And yet, here we are, in a crowded bar full of randoms, where I can barely hear myself _think_ , let alone hold a conversation, in an establishment where its only purpose is to serve drinks that I hate.”

“Incorrect,” Patrick replies, throwing an arm around him as they walk towards the bar. “They serve non-alcoholic drinks here too, which Stevie’s having tonight because she’s our sober driver. You can join her, if you want. But I have something better in—oh, shit,” he stutters, because there’s someone very familiar at the bar who’s spotted Patrick at the same instant Patrick spotted him, and is already moving to greet them.

 _“Patrick,”_ Jake says, he of Patrick's disastrous gay awakening - emotional depth of a teacup, ass-that-won't-quit and all - leaning over to give him a friendly, greeting kiss. On the mouth. Patrick clears his throat, stepping back into David, who has suddenly gotten _very_ tense. Jake, oblivious to all of this, carries on. “Hey, you’re looking good. You, me, Stevie, we should catch up, sometime – haven’t seen you since you came to pick up that cedar chest you ordered. How’d that work out for you?”

“Good, uh, very good,” Patrick says, just _nailing_ this whole interaction. Over Jake’s shoulder, he sees Stevie returning with their drinks, taking one look at the situation, and wisely going back to the bar. “Jake, this is, uh, David – he was the one who I commissioned the chest for.”

“Jake, _the_ Jake, huh? Well. It’s nice to meet you, Jake,” David says, very tightly. “It’s hard _not_ to meet someone, in a town this small. We’ve gone so long without ever crossing paths, it almost feels like I shouldn’t be meeting you, right now.”

“Hey, you're right - we should really hang out more, get to know each other,” Jake says, amiably, David’s barb flying right over his head and into one of the dartboards mounted on the wall. “Well, you’re always welcome to swing by the shop. Patrick used to spend a lot of time there, when we were together – he loved checking out my wood.”

Above them, one of the fluorescent bulbs flares for a second and bursts, showering David in little fragments of glass. David seems not to notice. “Must have been faulty, ah, wiring,” Patrick says, giving David’s arm a reassuring squeeze.

“Huh, yeah,” Jake says, thoughtfully. “Well, a bunch of us are just about to head out, go have a few drinks in the woods. So, hey, I’ll catch you later – unless, either of you wants to join?”

“I think we’re good here,” Patrick says, firmly, as David makes an audible, strangled noise, “But, it was great seeing you, Jake. Hope you have a good night.”

 _“This_ was your idea of something better?” David hisses, as soon as Jake leaves.

Patrick levels a flat look at him. “No,” he replies, “I didn’t know he was going to be here. What I _meant_ was—”

“Hey, Patrick, David,” Twyla interrupts, in a _killer_ little black dress and a sparkly headpiece Patrick swears he’s seen Alexis wearing before, “Have you seen Jake?”

“Oh, he just left,” Patrick replies, “I think he said he was going—”

“—to the woods!” Ted says, stumbling over to them, swinging an arm around Twyla, “We’re going for drinks! No— _more_ drinks. Alexis, come on, we’re going to miss the drinks!”

 _“Alexis,”_ David says, as she walks over, hand in hand with the copiously-bearded Mutt Schitt, “What are you _doing._ ”

“Um, having _fun,_ David,” Alexis says, “You should look up the concept in one of your little textbooks, or something.” She takes Ted’s hand with the one not presently engaged with Mutt’s, pressing a kiss to Twyla’s cheek, and then asks, “Have you seen Jake?”

Patrick just points, wordlessly, to the exit, and all four of them traipse merrily out.

“Are they… are they having an _orgy?”_ Stevie asks, finally venturing out from her hiding spot now that the coast is clear.

“Your words,” Patrick says. He turns to David. “Is Alexis taking advantage of them? With her, uh, abilities?”

“Oh, I doubt it,” David says, darkly. “Not after the talk we _both_ went through after Alexis started hanging out with Twyla. If you cut open this body you would see the words ‘healthy human consent’ tattooed on the inside of my skull.” He shudders.

“Well, in human culture, there’s this thing we do called ‘drinking to forget,’” Stevie says, handing David over the fruity cocktail Patrick ordered for him. “Patrick and I did it the night after Mrs. Rose destroyed my motel. Very effective.”

“Ah,” David says, shiftily, looking down at his drink. “Well. Who can really say as to, ah, who was truly responsible for that tragic accident—”

“Drink up, David,” Patrick interjects, clinking his glass with David’s, and tipping it up to his lips. David mirrors him, gingerly sipping at his Cosmopolitan, and, right on cue—

 _“Oh,”_ David sighs, with that familiar dreamy smile of his inner foodie surfacing, “Oh, well this is _very_ nice.”

“Course it is,” Patrick says, fondly, giving him a pat to the shoulder. “You think I’d get you something you’d hate? I know you a little better than that.”

Given his lack of exposure to alcohol, it doesn’t take long to get David drunk. Patrick had banked on his magical metabolism giving him maybe an extra few drinks of leeway, but in reality he’s tipsy after drink one and swaying about pretty heavily by drink three, which is when Stevie and Patrick make a joint decision to cut him off.

“Mm, no, wan’ another Cosmo,” he complains, once Patrick shows up with another beer for himself and water for David. “How come you get more drinks? S’not fair.”

“Because you’re new to this, and I’m a lot better at handling it than you are,” Patrick says, somewhat tipsy but entirely sensible. “Trust me, you’ll be thanking me in the morning.” David leans back against the wall, sighing, the long line of his neck edged in neon – Patrick thinks about putting his mouth to it, as per usual, and realizes, with a thrill, that he _can_ , now. The alcoholic haze in his brain, which doesn’t give a damn about silly little things like public indecency and the good reputation he’s built in this town, says, _oh, fuck yes._ He swallows, heavily, and takes a long pull of his beer, if only to give his mouth something else to do.

“Feeling tired?” Patrick asks, after a little while. “Want to get out of here?” David _hmms_ , body swaying gently to its own beat, and cants his head lazily to one side. He watches, curiously, as David's expression changes when Patrick goes to take another drink – his mouth falling slack, eyelids dropping low, dark pupils drawn wide. Patrick realizes, with a dark, simmering delight, that David is tracking his mouth, stretched across the rim of his beer bottle.

David, by his own admission, has been pulling his powers in, reining them more under control. He rarely slips, nowadays. But Patrick feels the warm air of the bar start to get even sultrier, sticky caramel sweet, that familiar heat sliding across his skin. Keeping his eyes locked on David’s, Patrick puts on a little show – tonguing the rim of the bottle, then pressing the neck a little deeper into his mouth than necessary and draining the rest of his beer, slow, without pausing to breathe – David lets out a shaky breath as Patrick sets the empty bottle aside, leaning in, and Patrick allows him to get close enough that his fruity breath drifts over his lips before grinning and turning away, pulling his phone out of his pocket instead. David whines, frustrated, dropping his head onto the crook of Patrick’s shoulder and wrapping his arms loosely around Patrick’s waist.

 ** _Ready to go?_** Patrick texts Stevie. ** _five mins, in line for the bathroom_** , she replies, and Patrick shoots her one back, saying, **_Cool cool meet you at the cat_** , ahem, **_*car_**. “Hey,” he murmurs to David, pressing his lips to his forehead – hot, shimmering electric. “Let’s go.”

“Okay,” David says, suddenly energized, and practically drags Patrick out of the bar.

They end up taking the scenic route. David pins him up against the wall outside and proceeds to kiss him _very_ thoroughly, in full view of some smokers, who give them a few wolf whistles and a couple of _get it, Patrick_ ’s before Patrick takes his hand and pulls him a bit further down the road, where David promptly stumbles and falls into a bush, pulling Patrick down on top of him. And then, since they’re already down there, Patrick slots his thigh between David’s legs and his mouth at David’s throat and they spend a little while _really_ enjoying all that nature has to offer before it starts raining, as though nature herself indulged their antics for a time but is now telling them, in no uncertain terms, to _cool off._ Patrick pulls David up, laughing, and they half-run, half stumble through the misty rain towards Stevie’s car, parked under the halo of a streetlight.

“I really, I really like you,” David says, the alcohol making him breathlessly, brilliantly honest, “I’ve never known anyone like you.”

“I know,” Patrick says, grinning, and David kisses him right there under the streetlight, until Patrick can’t see anything beyond the sheets of golden rain.

*

David sleeps right through the morning, and doesn’t even get out of bed until the afternoon, which is a new record even for him, but, that’s okay – Day Two is meant to be lazy. Patrick, sticking to his word that this is the Birthday Weekend and he’s not allowed to do any work, keeps his laptop firmly shut and instead tools around with his guitar, quietly working through an arrangement based on a song that was playing at the bar last night, which David enthusiastically sang along to. _“I call you, when I need you, my heart’s on fire,”_ he sings, softly, watching the rise and fall of David’s chest, and feels so fiercely fond he can barely stand it.

Still, even in his romantic stupor, Patrick remains, at his core, practical to a fault. Which is why he packed three blankets alongside their heavily-stocked picnic basket for Day Two. One is still laid out on the field by Patrick’s car, collecting dew and strewn with the aftermath of their picnic, Patrick’s guitar and case being separately used to pin down multiple empty potato chip packets lest they get carried off in the breeze. The second is inside the car, Stevie snuggled into it, sleeping off her high. The third blanket they’ve laid atop the car, across the hood, where David and Patrick are lying together, staring up at the stars. Patrick did not partake this evening, because today’s his turn to drive – but that’s okay, because it’s an honour and a privilege just to get to witness a _deeply_ stoned David Rose pontificate on the great mysteries of our time, like whether Avril Lavigne was _really_ replaced by a doppelganger, or if she just had her personality rewired by aliens. David thinks that theory is very plausible. He knows a guy.

“Which one’s yours?” Patrick asks, motioning at the glittering canvas of the night sky.

“Dunno,” David replies, vaguely. “Too far away. They all look the same. I’m not a, uh, I’m not a space scientist, _Patrick._ ” For some reason, he finds this very funny, muffling giggles into the sleeve of Patrick’s sweater.

“Fair enough,” Patrick replies, smiling.

“I think I like it,” David says, out of nowhere. The silence drags, and Patrick thinks maybe that’s the end of it, but then he continues. “Being human. Especially the food. The food is _great._ ” David had absolutely obliterated all of their weed snacks. There was a big fight with Stevie over the last bag of chips. “Pizza…mm. Pretzels. Nutella scrolls. Ice cream sandwiches… alcohol is fun. Not the morning after, ugh. This, the uh, the weed. Love this. Feels very floaty. Like I could take this body off and go up there, somewhere. Figure out where my star is.”

“Nothing else?” Patrick prompts.

“Hmmm,” David considers. “TV, music, like a lot of those. Mariah. Beyoncé. Oprah. Cashmere – very soft.”

Patrick tries to school his expression into something approximating hurt, before realizing David probably can’t even see it in the dark. “So I don’t even rate above cashmere, huh.”

David, incredibly high, the buckles on his armour left open, falls right into his trap anyway. “Noooo,” he says, forlornly. “ _Patrick._ You are the best. The _best._ ” He starts into a familiar, off-key tune. “ _Better than aaaall the rest—”_ and Patrick laughs, trying to shush him, because Stevie can get real cranky after a weed nap, and eventually just grabs him by the jawline until there’s no more Tina Turner echoing across the field – just David’s lips, moving against his, sweet and slow like a summer night.

“You could be anywhere,” David asks, later. “I’m stuck in this town, but you can go _anywhere_ , like, what’s the saying—the world is your oyster. Why _do_ people say that, anyway? Grey, slimy planet.” He giggles, and then sighs, looking out to the stars. “Why here?”

“Well,” Patrick begins, “Oysters weren’t involved, but, there was a girl.”

“But I thought you said you didn’t—” David makes a weird hand movement that Patrick can’t quite make out, but is probably meant to approximate sex, “—with girls. Stevie explained it to me. With wine. It’s like—she only drinks red wine. And some humans drink white wine. And some drink, like, all the wines. And she said you only drank red. But then you also dated her? So I guess I don’t know.”

Patrick mulls this over in his head. “Well, I guess sometimes you think you like one wine, because it’s the only thing you’ve ever drank. And then you try something different, and realize you never really enjoyed that type of wine in the first place – you were only really drinking it because everyone else was.”

“Ugh,” David groans, arching his whole body into it. “Human sexuality is _confusing._ ”

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” Patrick replies, with feeling. “Anyway, I was with this girl for a long time. We were engaged, actually. But it never felt—I felt like I was living someone else’s life. Going through the motions. And one day I just couldn’t do it anymore, so—I left. Just picked a direction and drove. And I ended up here.” He stretches out against the windscreen, feeling David resettle himself against his chest. “As to why I stayed… I came here with a question I didn’t even know I was asking, and I guess I got my answer, so… I don’t know. Maybe I was waiting for something.” He smiles down at David. “Maybe I was waiting for you.”

David’s quiet for a moment. “That’s, um. That’s maybe the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said, to me." A beat, and then he amends it with, "Since that other thing, you told me before."

“As I said,” Patrick says, as golden sparks drift in lazy circles around them, David’s own personal flock of fireflies blinking bright against the night, “Right where I’m supposed to be.”

*

It’s hard to get back into the swing of work after that weekend. Not just because Patrick is vaguely exhausted from back-to-back late nights, but also because it feels like something has shifted, over these past few days – like none of what they’re doing here really matters, anymore. David and Stevie are probably right – there’s nothing in the Rose files that can exonerate them. Their old manager screwed them good and hard, and got away with it, and sometimes that shit just happens. Patrick’s dragging his feet because he feels like he’s ready to move on – David has already basically dropped all pretenses and spends most of his time putting together a product catalog for what he’s calling the Rose Apothecary. Even though Patrick knows this is bad business practice, that Johnny Rose is a _client_ , that he’s paying for this job to be done and so it needs to be _done_ , to the best of his ability and regardless of his feelings on the matter, he’s finding it more and more difficult to keep himself in check.

“David,” he repeats, for maybe the third time this morning, “Are you finished with the—”

“Yes, mhmm, yes, check your Dropbox,” David says, vaguely, tapping away at his own laptop, and the little blue wheel pops up in the corner of Patrick’s screen as David’s file syncs across. “Do you think potpourri could come back in? I feel like it has the right aesthetic for the brand, but I don’t know if enough time has passed for it be like, quirky and retro, instead of just, tacky and dated, you know?”

Patrick flicks quickly through the document, eyes catching on a crucial line, and sighs, quashing his mild irritation – in his distracted state, David’s made a pretty major typo. “David, I think this line is wrong. Can you look through it again? Page 4, line 37.”

“Ugh,” David groans, making no attempt to hide his own irritation, and pulls the relevant document out of the paper stack, eyes flicking back and forth between it and the digital transcript he’s compiled. “No, this is correct,” he says, dismissively. “You’re probably confused because those two words look similar in our language, but mean completely different things in yours, so. Don’t feel bad about it. We all make mistakes.”

“You’re right,” Patrick says, slowly. “It’s a mistake. David… this is it.” Patrick watches, as if from outside of his own body, as he rereads the sentence again, willing his discovery to be wrong. But it’s not. It’s undeniable. The litigious thermal exhaust port to the Rose files’ Death Star.

It takes a moment, and then – David takes a sharp, almost choked-off breath, as though the implications of this have hit him square in the chest. Patrick can relate. “It’s fine,” David says, hurriedly, “Patrick, just delete it. No one will know, we don’t have to tell them—”

“Tell us what?” Johnny Rose says, appearing at the door, and Moira’s head pops over right after, with a cheery _knock, knock!_ Patrick’s heart just sinks deep into a quiet, dark place somewhere south of his ribcage. He looks to David, to David’s vaguely stricken expression, knowing what he now has to do. _I’m sorry, David,_ he tells him, silently, _I wish we had more time._

“Nothing!” David says, full of false cheer. “Everything is great. How are you, Dad, Mom? Lovely weather we’re having. You should really be outside, enjoying it. Thanks so much for stopping by.”

“Well, we’ll be brief,” Johnny says, “We just wanted to personally deliver your official invitations to the grand reopening of the Budd Motel this coming Friday. It includes a plus one, but I have a feeling you boys won’t need it.” He affects a wink.

“Well, Patrick and I would be honoured to attend,” David says, placing one hand on each of his parents’ shoulders and attempting to hustle them out of the office. “Just leave them on the desk, and you can be on your way—”

“David,” Patrick says, quietly.

“Be right with you,” David says, high and tight, “I’m just going to escort my very thoughtful and intrusive parents out of our place of work—”

“Mr. Rose,” Patrick calls out. “Just one moment of your time. I need you to confirm something for me.” As Johnny comes around behind the desk, Patrick lines up the pertinent document with the highlighted line on the digital version. “Can you verify that this is the correct translation, here?”

Johnny’s bushy brows draw tight, and then shoot up. “ _Patrick_ ,” he exclaims, “This is big, this could—it would void the entire contract.”

“It won’t bring everything back—” Patrick begins, but, “—Enough to make a case, give us a fighting chance at the rest,” Johnny finishes, clapping him on the back, “Moira, we’re going home!”

“Mr. Brewer, our shining light at the end of the tunnel, I always had faith you would see us through,” Moira gushes, pushing past David to grab Patrick’s face with both hands and press a tingly Rose-kiss onto his cheek, “Oh, and David, I’m sure you helped, in your small way – come, we must begin preparations immediately! Of course, I’ll need a day to make sure my favourite girl is ready for the journey ahead…”

“Yes, Alexis will need some forewarning to sort out her, ah, complicated interpersonal relationships with the people in this town.”

“Oh, I’m sure Alexis will have plenty of time to get her affairs in order,” Moira says airily, “No, I’m more concerned about Caroline, darling, she’s a most delicate traveller.”

“That settles it, then,” Johnny decides, clapping his hands together, “We can leave after the motel reopening party, this Friday. Moira, that should give you enough time to get your wigs, ah, the girls, suitably squared away, and any other matters that need to be attended to. Patrick, is there anything else you’ll be needing on your end?”

Johnny and Moira look to him, expectantly, as if Patrick hasn’t been sitting here numbly, for the past few minutes, dealing with the fact that his entire life has just been blown apart. David, sinking back into his chair, just stares at the pair of invitations Johnny pressed into his hands. “Um,” Patrick says, clearing his throat roughly, “David and I can deal with recompiling the files. I’ll put together a final report for you by Friday.”

“Thank you, Patrick,” Johnny says, with a warm, joyous smile. He holds out a hand. “You have done us a great service. One we will never forget.” Patrick nods, not trusting his voice not to give him away. He shakes Johnny’s hand, somehow managing to arrange his mouth into something resembling a smile.

 _“O, happy day!”_ Moira crows, taking Johnny’s arm, "Come, we must celebrate! Johnny, dear, do you think we might spare the time to put together that parade—" Their cheerful conversation fades out as they leave the office, leaving David and Patrick to sit, silent, in the smoking crater of the bomb they’ve just detonated.

“We’re going to talk about this,” Patrick says, after a beat, to the far wall. “But I just, I need a minute. If that’s okay.”

“Okay,” David replies, softly.

“Okay,” Patrick repeats, taking a deep breath, and looking around. He needs to—he needs to do something practical, something to set the tangled mess in his mind into a straight line, to carry him forward. “The sooner we start getting all the files back together, the sooner it’ll be done, so – can you start with the boxes in the corner?”

“Of course,” David says, impossibly gentle. “So long as I don’t have to carry any of them back to the motel.”

Patrick laughs, watery, finally meeting his eyes. David smiles at him, that crooked, entirely-David smile, and Patrick wonders how he got so lucky to have him in his life – for all the time that they have left. “I might have an alternative mode of transport,” Patrick replies. “I’ll see what I can do.”

*

They go through all of the options.

Option A: David goes home with the Roses. They try out long-distance. They probably break the record for the longest distance relationship ever – at least, in the history of the Earth. If the Guinness World Record adjudicator survives ratifying the Budd Motel records to confirm that claim, of course.

Option B, which David is the most enthused about: Patrick comes with them – and Patrick can’t deny that the thought of travelling to an entirely different part of the universe, to see things no other human has witnessed, is pretty fucking awesome. But two issues immediately present themselves: first, Patrick made a promise to Stevie that he’s not going to break, no matter where in the universe he ends up; and two, Alexis, walking into the motel room, says in no uncertain terms that Patrick couldn’t survive on their world – _humans need to eat_, _David, like all the time, or they die, didn’t you read the book,_ and then, almost as an afterthought, _oh, and like, I don’t think he can take off that body, so he’d probably explode. I just don’t love that journey for you, Patrick._

Option C: David stays on Earth. He, presumably, spends the rest of his life in Schitt’s Creek. For however long that life is – but Patrick flat out refuses to add mortality into the mix, because remembering Johnny Rose was around in  _1922_ is a whole other bag of worms that he just can’t deal with right now, so, one problem at a time.

Unfortunately, that’s exactly the point at which Moira steps through the adjoining door and into the debate.

“David, stop pacing in circles, like a magnetically-muddled pigeon,” she admonishes. “Entertaining thoughts of shackling yourself to this town – you’ve certainly indulged too heavily in Stevie’s funny plants.” Ignoring David’s protests, Moira turns to Patrick, holding out her arm and drawing two fingers across the inside of her wrist – her skin flashes, for a moment, and an intricate set of golden runes appear. “A price paid, for a safe haven,” she explains. “So long as we are in this realm, we are bound to this place. Really, it’s a stroke of rare fortune that we were able to reside here, at all, given we _are_ in the midst of a conservation area.”

“Earth,” Patrick exclaims, slightly pitchy, as it hits him. “ _Earth_ is a conservation area.”

“Well, of course it is,” Moira says, indulgently. “You’re a protected species, dear.”

“Right,” Patrick says, faintly. “I think I need to—I’m going to sit down.” 

“There is a kindness, perhaps,” Moira demurs, walking over and placing a hand on Alexis’ arm. Alexis looks to her sharply, and then over to Patrick, unsettled. “I suspected, with the amount of time you’ve spent in each other’s company, that there may be need for an adjustment period. There is a way that we, that is to say, Alexis and I, could ease the weight of this transition, for you.”

Patrick’s brow creases a little as he tries to figure out what Moira is offering, here, but David suddenly steps forwards, placing himself in front of Patrick. The room temperature seems to plummet about ten degrees. “No, absolutely not,” he nearly _snarls_ , and it gives Patrick a bit of a jolt – David can be cutting, sure, but he’s never been _vicious_ , and especially not to his own family. “Don’t you _touch him_.”

“David?” Patrick asks uncertainly, starting to shiver a little.

“They want to destroy your memories of me,” David cuts in, and the shard of icy dread that spears through Patrick’s chest is far darker and colder than the room they’re now standing in. “They want to _cut me_ out of your mind.”

 _“No,”_ Patrick says, quick and harsh, and then brings his voice back to ground level. “No, uh, thank you, Mrs. Rose, for the offer, but that’s a hard pass from me. David, can we talk for a moment?”

He takes David outside the motel, into the cool evening air, the first sign that summer’s finally deciding to break. “They should never, that they could even _consider,_ ” David mutters, angrily, face cast in deep shadow.

“They just want what’s best, for you,” Patrick replies. “And yes, in a way I strongly disagree with, that very much compromises my bodily autonomy, but, all relationships have baggage.”

“I suppose that’s true,” David allows. “I once dated the physical manifestation of universal entropy, so, you can imagine how that turned out.”

“I really, honestly can’t,” Patrick says, giving him a small smile. He’s quiet for a moment. “David, if you leave—”

“—I am _not_ going to—”

“I’ll be okay,” Patrick interrupts, gently. “Maybe not for a long time, but – we can both find a way to move forward. David, you have a _life_ out there—”

“I have a life _here_ ,” David cuts in, “I have friends, I’ve got my new business, which – okay, I saw that you got my licence framed, I know it was meant to a surprise, and it really is a lovely gesture, but the frame is a bit too corporate for my brand, so, don’t be mad, but I got it switched out – and,” David continues in a rush, as though he really does think the _frame_ of all things is what’s important to Patrick, here, “Further to my point, I have a _very_ stubborn human boyfriend in this town, who I’d really appreciate if he stopped his apparent crusade to kick me off the planet.” He comes up for air, suddenly uncertain. “Unless – is that what you want?”

“It’s not,” Patrick says, honestly and immediately, “Of course it’s not. But it’s the best—”

“Good,” David says, fiercely, “Then I’m staying.”

*

Friday dawns, and then dusks – grey twilight slips into the deep blue of night as Patrick arrives at Alexis and David’s motel room, refusing to acknowledge the suitcases piled up outside and instead rapping firmly on the door. Except Moira is the one who answers, a vision in a dark dress with a giant, glittering frog broach pinned at her chest. “Ah, there you are,” she says, beckoning to Patrick, “And about time, too. You know it’s awfully rude to keep a lady waiting.”

Patrick blinks, stumbling half a step back. “Evening, Mrs. Rose. You look lovely. I’m, ah, actually here to pick up David.”

“Oh, he’ll be along,” Moira says, dismissively. Patrick clears his throat, trying to peer around her into the room behind. “Well, don’t just stand there, gawking like one of those novelty talking fish upon the wall, dear,” she continues. “The night is not growing any younger!”

Patrick sighs, deflating. “Of course, Mrs. Rose,” he says, offering her his arm. “May I have the honour of escorting you to the party?”

“Well, it hardly seems necessary," Moira replies, taking Patrick by the elbow, "But, if that is your wish, then I am happy to oblige.”

It’s really only a few minutes to walk from the motel to the staging area of the party, held in the field out back, but Moira takes a right, apparently forgoing the shortest route for something more scenic. And it is – the long line of newly refurbished rooms gleaming with fresh paint, hanging pots of flowers interspaced between them, a cheery doormat placed at reception decorated with the town creed: _Everyone is Welcome._ Patrick takes a moment to wonder at it all, that Stevie and Johnny Rose could put all of this together - the Budd Motel springing up from the ashes, brighter and bolder than ever before, Stevie's legacy in all its newfound glory.

“And most propitious indeed,” Moira is saying, as he turns his attention back to her, “That we may spend a few moments of time together to discuss matters of some import before my family and I take our leave.”

Patrick stops in his tracks, just as they round the corner. The party’s now visible across the way, guests already milling in groups around the tables, silhouetted against the strung lights. If he squints, that’s probably Stevie and Johnny Rose on the small stage, discussing something with the band. “If this is about David,” he says, carefully, “He made his choice. That’s out of my hands, Mrs. Rose.”

Moira hums in consideration. “And do you believe it to be the wisest course of action?”

“I think…” Patrick begins, and then trails off, because the answer he _wants_ to give her – _yes, of course, no doubt in my mind –_ isn’t the truthful answer. And he owes it to Moira – heck, he owes it to _himself –_ to be honest, so, he picks his words carefully. “I think he can be happy, here—I _know_ he can. And I’ll do everything in my power to make sure of it, but. But I don’t know if it will be enough.” He swallows, heavily, around the lump in his throat. “The reality is… this town is too small for him. David deserves the world. And that’s the one thing I can’t give.”

Moira is silent, for a moment, as they both watch the ebb and flow of people ahead, in their little island of light. “Perhaps you can,” she says, cryptically.

Patrick frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I would like to apologize for a brief error in judgment I may have made,” Moira says, and Patrick nearly breaks his _neck_ with the force that he swings around to look at her. Moira Rose doesn’t _apologize,_ for _anything_ , and yet here she is, gentle on his arm, expression soft and sincere in the distant glow of lights. “You see, I was under the impression that your dalliance with my son was merely a pleasant distraction, for him, to help tide over our stay in this town. But I see, now, the way he looks at you.” She smiles, turning back to regard the party, light dancing in her eyes. “I know that look – I’ll never forget the first time I was graced with it, all those many years ago, from one Johnny Rose. It’s something very rare, and very special – not to be wasted.”

 _I see the way he looks at you_. Even if he knew how to respond, Patrick’s pretty sure he couldn’t, with the way his heart swells up in his chest, pressing his lungs breathless. “Our David keeps so much of himself locked away,” Moira continues, after a moment. “We can help, in our small way, to channel it, but it is up to you to open that door, so that he may allow himself to step through.”

That seems to be all she’s prepared to say, for the moment, but – as deeply validating as it is – Patrick’s very sure he’s not seeing the full picture, here. “Mrs. Rose,” he says, hesitantly, “I’m not entirely sure I understand what you mean.”

“I believe I told you, dear,” Moira says, gently. “As I have said, before, forgetfulness will not serve you well in your endeavours.” She straightens her dress, and resumes their walk to the party. “Well, we shouldn’t hold up the proceedings any longer. There is a limit to how fashionable one’s lateness can be. Ah, Jocelyn!” she calls out, as her acapella ladies wave her over, “Yes, I know, parting is such sweet sorrow…”

Patrick presses forwards into the crowd, passing Alexis and her throng of admirers, until he finds David standing near the back by the buffet. He’s back in the gorgeous suit from the day they first met – that wild, whirlwind of a night – and Patrick takes a moment just to drink him in, to watch the way the lights play over his face, so that he catches the exact moment that David turns, spotting him. And in that sliver of time, before David draws it safely back under his mask, Patrick sees it – something very rare, very special. Something not to be wasted.

“Hey,” Patrick says. “I was looking for you.”

David smiles, tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Well, you found me.”

Patrick opens his mouth, maybe to make some quick quip, to lighten the mood – _should’ve brought my pajamas, so we’re both in theme_ – but before he can say anything, he’s interrupted by Johnny Rose taking the mic. “Thank you all, very much, for coming this evening,” he says, as the murmur of the crowd dies down to accommodate him. “My name is Johnny Rose, and my family and I have had the privilege of residing in this fine town for the past few months. But, as many of you know, tonight will be our last in Schitt’s Creek.” There’s a resounding _awww_ from the crowd, and then Roland butts in with a _hope it’s your last on this stage_ , to scattered laughter and friendly jeering. “Thank you, Roland,” Johnny continues dryly, “It’s been a pleasure getting to know you all. In particular, one very fine young woman, who I won’t take any more time from, tonight.” He swings one arm to sidestage, and says, “Stevie Budd, everyone.”

Patrick watches in disbelief as Stevie, stunning in a dark dress, walks on stage. He looks to David, who’s smiling over at her without a hint of surprise, and figures he doesn’t know – Stevie _hates_ public speaking. But here she is, up there on that stage, fingers white-knuckled at the mic stand, but voice clear and steady. “Uh, hi, everyone, and thank you Mr. Rose for the introduction. I want to welcome you all to the new and improved Budd Motel. I know it’s been a long time coming, but, uh, I think you’ll find it’s worth the wait.” Patrick whoops, clapping alongside the rest of the crowd, and Stevie grins, ducking her head for a moment, before she continues. “I won’t keep you long, I know you’re all waiting to get into the buffet before Bob clears out the chicken wings—” Laughter, and some good-natured protesting from Bob, “—but I want to say – I couldn’t have done all of this, including this party, tonight, without Mr. Johnny Rose.” Johnny, stood to one side, smiles, waving her off - but even from the back of the crowd, the pride he emanates is as tangible as if it were David up on that stage, shining bright. “I think I can speak for all of us when I say Schitt’s Creek won’t be the same without the Roses, so – thank you. Um, I hope, wherever it is you go next, you’ll always have fresh towels.” David laughs, beside him, swallowed by the applause.  

 _My dad builds things,_ David had said. _He can take a seed of something and help it grow._ And Patrick, watching Stevie smile into the applause instead of shrinking back, _gets it –_ that building something isn’t about a revived motel, or a growing client list, or a general store with a twist, it’s about the people standing next to you, passing you the bricks. Friendship, love, family, community, all set in mortar - coming together slowly, with care, and made to last. Heart hammering in his chest, he looks at David, and it all clicks into place – Johnny builds. Alexis communicates. Moira destroys. And David, who _keeps so much of himself locked away_ — the world is David’s beating heart, and Patrick needs to make it _sing_.

“David,” he says, quickly, “Do you trust me?”

“I—yeah, sure,” David says, puzzled. “Why?”

“Okay, wait here. I’ll be back,” Patrick promises, and pushes quickly through the crowd, up onto the side of the stage, just as Stevie’s stepping down.

“What are you doing?” she hisses.

“Amazing speech, you killed it up there, I’ll explain later,” Patrick says in a rush as he vaults the stairs, just as the band is starting to file onto the stage. He grabs the mic before the singer can reach it, much to his disgruntlement. “Uh, hi folks, I’m Patrick Brewer,” he says, trying to keep the nerves out of his voice. “Before we kick things off, there’s something I’d like to share with all of you.” He turns back to the band, who are looking to each other in various states of confusion, and zeroes in on their guitarist. “Hey man,” he asks, _sotto voce_ , “Can I borrow your guitar? Just for a few minutes, I promise.”

“Better make it good,” he grumbles, passing it over. Patrick swings the strap over his head, holding the pick between his thumb and forefinger with a shaky hand.

“I want to dedicate a song to someone very special to me,” Patrick says. “David Rose. There, in the back – you can’t miss him.” Heart pounding in his ears, he takes a deep breath, going through the chord progression he figured out in his head one more time, places his fingers to the strings, and starts to play.

 _“I call you, when I need you, my heart’s on fire,”_ he sings, watching David watch him – closed off, uncertain at first. _“You come to me, wild and wired…”_

It starts slow. Motes of light, like sparks on the breeze from a bonfire just out of sight, drifting over the crowd. And then, suddenly, like a levee breaking, flowers burst into bloom all around them – the table bouquets full to bursting with colour, daisies and buttercups springing up from the grass, petals drifting up into the air, light and sweet. One by one, the fairy lights above him start to pop, light spraying out into the air to mingle with the brightness all around them. There’s a mix of gasps and laughter from the crowd, as though this is all part of the performance, but Patrick, pouring out his heart, is only human. This is all David – Patrick’s just opening the door.

And in the midst of all of this, he sees each of the Roses weave their way towards David. Johnny gets there first, standing to his left, and Moira comes with Alexis in tow, taking his right. Moira nods at Patrick, smiling, and then takes David’s hand. Johnny subtly removes a glove, letting his hand brush David’s on his other side, and Alexis leans on Moira, wrapped around her arm, swaying in time to the music. David doesn’t seem to notice – he looks to Patrick, and the rest of the crowd fades away, until it’s just him and David – the tremulous set of his smile, his eyes so liquid and so, so bright, the clouds behind them burning away into wide, open sky. _I know you,_ Patrick tries to say, without words, _know me. I see you – see me._

_I love you._

_“Oh, you’re the best,”_ Patrick finishes, letting the last note ring, and the light around them fades as the crowd erupts into applause, until it’s just sparks on the breeze again – Patrick takes only a moment to return his borrowed guitar before he’s off the stage, pushing back through the crowd, towards his luminous alien boyfriend wedged in the middle of a Rose family hug.

“I can’t believe you upstaged my moment,” Stevie says, at his elbow. “You’re really—you’re the worst.”

"I'm sorry," Patrick says, guiltily, and really meaning it. "You crushed it up there. Seriously, I'm so proud of you, and everything you've achieved with the motel, it was, really, it was an alien power circle and a timing thing—"

"It's fine," Stevie replies, with a small smile, so Patrick knows she's only messing with him, "I mean, really, if I was going to blame anyone, it would be David's fault for like, not being able to express his big gay love for you with emojis like the rest of us." And before Patrick can digest  _that_ little morsel of information, lodging itself somewhere high and bright in his chest, she adds, "Don't worry, I'll find a way to step on your next big moment. In the meantime, you can make it up to me, first thing tomorrow, by moving those files out of my closet."

"Touché," Patrick says, ruefully. The band has evidently finished their quick safety check of the electrical equipment after Patrick's little display - and he takes a mental note that that's something he  _also_ needs to make up for, hopefully without involving more paperwork on his end - and the party kicks off with something jaunty and fun to get people moving. Patrick keeps still, letting Stevie lean against him as people laugh and dance around them, watching the Roses talk to each other in low voices, their little huddle set apart from the crowd - as though Patrick, Stevie and the Roses are twin islands on separate plates, fated to drift apart. “You’re really going to miss him, aren’t you?” Patrick asks, softly.

“Maybe, a little,” Stevie admits. “I said my goodbyes, before, but. I’ll miss all of them, really. Even Moira. They really have a way of like, crawling right into your heart. Chestburster style.”

There’s something, in the tone of her voice – “Are you crying?”

“No,” Stevie lies, sniffling a little, “There’s just a—there’s a lot of pollen, in the air.”

The close circle of Roses begins to break up, and there's a finality to it. “That was beautiful, Patrick,” Alexis says, spotting him first as she slips out towards him. “Take care of my brother, okay?” She pulls him into a surprise hug, and then her voice dances through his thoughts – _something to remember us by,_ with a flash of the winking kissy-face emoji – and then colours-that-aren’t-colours bloom across his eyes as Alexis fills his head with a dreamscape of the Roses’ impossible, incredible home, with four beings placed in frame, formless and resplendent, and one that feels achingly familiar -  _David_ , Alexis supplies, amusement warm in his mind, and then his vision clears once more.

“Well, we must be going,” Johnny is saying, as Patrick steps back, dazed, “It’s easier to slip out now, so as to not startle the townsfolk.”

“I’ll come and visit,” David promises. “As often as I can.”

“My darling,” Moira says, fondly, “That’s a nice thought, but I simply don’t think you’ll have the time, what with all the places you’ll be visiting on _this_ charming little rock—” and she takes his hand, pulling up his sleeve, and runs her other hand across his wrist. This time, there’s no flash of light, no rune set bright above the bone – just clean, unbroken skin.

There’s a beat, and then – “Oh my god,” David says, in a half-sob, holding his wrist up to his eyeline, as though he just can’t believe it, “Oh my _god_ , how did you—I didn’t even think it was _possible—_ ”

“You did this yourself, dear,” Moira says. “All we provided was a little bit of guidance. Really, it was your butter-voiced beau who gave you the push you needed.”

The band slips into something slow, gentle. Patrick feels Stevie squeeze his arm, and then she’s gone into the crowd, as the Roses, too, slip away into the night – until it’s just David, pushing past the couples that are suddenly dancing in slow circles around them, smiling like he doesn’t know how to stop.

“So, where do you want to go first?” Patrick asks, stepping into the circle of his arms.

“That spa, in Elmdale,” David replies, without a second thought, “After that – Japan. Definitely Japan.”

“Of course, you’ve signed the lease for the general store, so that needs to be your first priority,” Patrick reminds him, trying and failing to hide his grin, “And I’ll need to split my time between being your partner in that venture and going through the motel records for Stevie, which might _actually_ take the rest of our lives—”

David casts his eyes to the heavens and then shuts him up by kissing him soundly, swallowing Patrick’s laugh as he wraps his arms around him – warm, bright, _mine_ – while the music moves with the lights behind his eyelids, spiraling up and up, sparks winking out in time with the stars. They dance like this through the night, until the northern lights flow across the sky, and then for a long time after.

**Author's Note:**

> _(and through autumn's advancing, we'll[stay young, go dancing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wFW2ZlyVXEw)) ___  
> 
> 
>   
> A big shout out and thank you to the Open Fic Night team, for not only putting together an awesome event, but also for always being on hand to give advice and support when I yelled things into their messagebox like _QUICK WHAT BREED IS PATRICK'S CAR_ and _yes, I know it's the beginning of June but I'm dropping my original WIP that I'm 10k into and starting something new because I think it'll take less time_ which, in retrospect, is TRUE comedy, folks.
> 
> Most of all, thank YOU, for reading. We got through this, together. I'm now going to sleep for 500 years. But, now that authors have been revealed, if you'd like another format in which to yell at me about this story, you can find me on Tumblr at [earlywrites](https://earlywrites.tumblr.com/)!


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